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Short Stories and Poems. 



BY 



NELLIE H. OWEN. 




WHITTET & SHEPPERSON, Printers, 
Richmond, Virginia. 






Copyright by 

NELLIE H. OWEN. 

1909. 



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AU310 1909 



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CONTENTS. 



STORIES. 

Page 

Barbara Carlyle, 9 

Valley Farm, 18 

My Sister Madge, 26 

From Tenement Walls, 39 

"Elmwood" During the War, 47 

POEMS. 

My Old Battered Canteen, 61 

Hail, This Easter Day, 63 

The First Easter Morn, 64 

He Simply Sleeps. Written on the Death of Dr. Moses D. 

Hoge, 66 

From Prison Walls, 68 

A Poetic Tribute — On the Fiftieth Anniversary of Rev. Dr. 
Moses D. Hoge's Ministry Before the Second Presby- 
terian Church, Richmond, Va., 7° 

Hollywood, 72 

'Neath the Palm and Willow, 73 

To the Rev. Dr. J. B. Hawthorne, 74 

Hollywood Memorial, 75 

Tribute to Little Agnes Cunningham, 76 

Lines on the Death of Little Willie Cook, 77 

I Built a Bridge of Fancies, 78 

They've Sold the Farm, 80 



6 Contents 

Page 

Maud's Picture, 82 

My Angel Grace, 84 

The Clarabel Lee, 86 

In Quilting Days, 89 

A Sabbath Day With Mother's Bible, 93 

Ben and Ned, 94 

Little Brown Hands, 97 

We Little Know, 98 

You are a Subject of His Mercy, 101 

To Mrs. C. H. West, 103 

Grandmother, 104 

The Lord, My Shepherd, 106 

Separated, 107 

My Treasure Chest, 109 

Old and Alone, 112 

When John and I were Young, 114 

The Old Wood Fire, 118 

Shall We Know Each Other There, 119 

In Memoriam — To Miss Wortley Scott Embrey, 121 

The Old-Fashioned Home, 122 

The Old Year and the New, 123 

To a Friend of Former Days on the Death of a Child, 124 

Tribute to Rev. N. G. Terry, the Pastor and Teacher of my 

Girlhood, 125 

On Memory's Shore, 127 

Let There Be Peace, 128 



Preface. 



The greater part of these stories and poems have 

appeared in various newspapers, magazines and in book 

form. 

The Author. 



Short Stories and Poems. 



BARBARA CARLYLE. 



It was one of those cool, damp evenings in the early 
Fall, that Aunt Barbara and I felt the need of a fire. 
We found ourselves seated in the library beside a cheer- 
ful blaze; it seemed that we did not partake of its 
cheerfulness however, for from some cause we knew 
not why, both were bordering on a melancholy state. 
Could it be the season I wondered, and my thoughts 
naturally reverted to William Cullen Bryant's beautiful 
poem, "The melancholy days are come, the saddest of 
the year." We had sat so long without speaking, that 
the very silence grew embarrassing. I glanced at my 
aunt to see if I could divine her thoughts. Ah me, they 
seemed so far away, that even my presence had no effect 
upon her. 

I had learned from my mother that there was a 
romance connected with her beautiful sister's life, for 
who could look into her face, as she sat in the fire-light 
beside me, and not be impressed with its beauty. Yes, 
she was a lovely woman, and the patrician was strongly 
marked upon every feature. Why she should on the 
verge of one-half century, have found herself unwed, 
was a question all would ask. She occupied the house 
wherein she was born. My dear mother and brother 
had married and left it, but she true as the needle to the 



io Short Stories and Poems 

pole, seldom found herself outside its walls. Grand- 
father and grandmother had long since been laid to rest 
in its beautiful family burial-grounds ; only Aunt Babara 
and its trusted servants left. I came and went at my 
will; I loved the dear old house and its beautifully-kept 
grounds, and who could know Aunt Barbara but to love 
her. It was her wish to have me always with her, 
but of course I couldn't entirely abandon my own home ; 
but so unselfish was mother that she seldom forbade 
me going when aunt felt the need of company. But in 
all my visits to this beautiful woman, I had never seen 
her so absorbed in thought, as on that memorable Fall 
evening. 

I had longed ever since I grew old enough to feel 
an interest in such things, to hear her life's romance 
from her own lips; but not for world's would I have 
touched upon such a delicate subject unbidden. But 
it seemed to me my darling aunt was communing with 
absent ones to-night, for her thoughts were so far away. 
She finally awoke from her reverie, and turning to me 
exclaimed, "You have been a dear little girl, Carlyle, to 
leave mama and your lovely city home so much, and 
come to brighten a cheerless woman's life." Aunt 
Barbara could never realize eighteen summers had 
passed since she first held me in her arms, and sang 
lullaby songs to me, it was always "little girl" with her. 
Well after breaking the silence, she relapsed into a 
deeper train of thought, if possible. I became restless, 
and walking to the window stood for several minutes 
peering out into utter darkness. Aunt Barbara finally 
moved her chair to one side, saying as she did so, and in 
a nervous and unusual tone, "Come here little girl and 
sit upon this otterman at my feet." I had never seen 



Short Stories and Poems ii 

her in such a mood, what could be its meaning. I went 
unhesitatingly as bidden and sat beside her. She held 
up her hand as if to shade her face from the fire's bright 
glow, and in a faltering voice said: 

"My thoughts are wandering to-night, Carlyle, they 
have taken me back thirty years, into the bitter past, 
and why I find the great impulse to speak on a subject, 
that has been locked in my bosom all this time, is a 
mystery. Not for years have I spoken to your mother 
as I will to you, my darling. 

"You see me here a lone, lone woman, you have often 
traced sorrow's lines upon my furrowed brow, and often 
have you smoothed the silvery locks long grown so, and 
braided them into a coil, to suit your fancy. Well these 
furrows and silvery hair tell their own story; ah, me, 
it seems plain enough for all the world to read. At 
twenty years of age, Carlyle, I was a loved and loving 
woman, fortune had been lavished upon me, and they 
told me that beauty and grace were also my portion. I 
was the gayest and wittiest in every crowd in which I 
mingled, all vying for my hand in the dance, or a quiet 
tete-a-tete whichever it might be. 

"During one of the gayest winters through which I 
had passed, and at one of the most fashionable balls, 
I was introduced to two gentlemen, princely in their 
bearing, words cannot express their grandeur. Young 
and giddy as girls of my age usually were, I fell des- 
perately in love with each, but after a few weeks, I 
found that I had become entirely enraptured with 
Howard Grahamme, while I still admired the other, yet 
I realized as I had never done before the true meaning 
of affection. I endeavored to conceal my real feelings, 
for I had never before truly loved, and I had an idea 



12 Short Stories and Poems 

that my popularity as a belle would quickly wane when 
society knew my choice was made. I'd as well have 
tried to change the course of a mighty river, as to have 
kept my love for Howard Grahamme a secret. Did not 
my very blush betray me? Yes, Carlyle, it was written 
in every feature of my face. His rival, Cecil Wayne, 
like others soon knew all. I had no idea, little girl, I had 
stirred such emotions in this strong, proud man's breast, 
haughty and reserved as he was, and up to that time 
withholding his affections from the fairest women. I 
met him as I had always done, and treated him as I 
did other gentlemen acquaintances. I would often meet 
him in company with Howard, and in all instances would 
show no preference. 

"The winter passed quickly by; the last fashionable 
ball was soon to be given. Howard was to be my escort. 
Your dear grandmother had lavished this world's goods 
richly upon me, for this crowning event, yes, my costume 
would have graced the courts of royalty. I was resplend- 
ent in diamonds, and the rarest laces, and how con- 
scious was I as I swept through the long, crowded ball- 
room, keeping time to the grand march, that all eyes 
were riveted upon me. May God forgive me, Carlyle, 
for all the vanity felt that night. Oh, I trust, little girl, 
He has made my heart whiter than snow in all these years 
of suffering. Howard Grahamme seemed enraptured 
in my presence, and although a man not given to soft 
speeches, he could not refrain from saying, "Babara, 
you are queenly to-night." Then Cecil Wayne came up 
to offer his hand in a favorite waltz. After it was over, 
he invited me to sit with him in one of the beautiful 
conservatories, until we had rested from the fatiguing 
dance. It was there, Carlyle seated in a remote corner, 



Short Stories and Poems 13 

hidden by the lovely plants and flowers, he poured forth 
his unbounded love. Never I think in looking back to 
it to-night, did such a strong appeal ever fall from the 
lips of a man. He was a lawyer, learned in the profes- 
sion, but he never argued a case as he did that night ; 
and when he realized upon what grounds he stood his 
indignation knew no bounds. Being a conceited man 
he could not realize how I could prefer another to him- 
self. He seemed to pass like magic from the confines of 
reason into wild delirium — his very soul seemed on fire. 
Little did I realize the extent of that fire. Jealousy, 
one of earth's greatest monsters, wove fancies of an in- 
nocent man's treachery. His frenzied brain grasped the 
idea that Howard Grahamme, to appear the brighter be- 
fore me, had maliciously maligned him. He believed 
that untold indignities had been thrust upon him. 

"On the next morning a challenge was sent to 
Howard Grahamme, in which he was accused of de- 
faming the character of the challenger. In those days 
no man of honor could fail to accept such. The paper 
read they must meet on the morning after the acceptance. 
Howard came to see me the evening before, but never 
once in the slightest way alluded to what was heaviest 
on his heart. He left at his usual hour, and at parting 
held my hand and looked into my face in a way he had 
never done. He turned aside as he emerged from the 
door, and said: 'Good-bye, sweetheart, may God watch 
over you if we never meet again.' Ah, me ! is there 
one day in all the year those words don't haunt me? 
Yes, I can hear and see him in the silent hours of the 
night, when all the world is wrapped in slumber. Oh, 
Carlyle, he was so grand and noble ! My emotions 
are fast overpowering me, forgive a weak woman. 



14 Short Stories and Poems 

"In the gray misty dawn of the following day, How- 
ard Grahamme and Cecil Wayne met in the suburbs of 
the city. Only the doctor and seconds knew that such 
would be. 

"My heart stops still, as visions of that gray morn- 
ing's dawn come over me, the morning that witnessed 
my darling's fall. Yes, he fell by the hand of Cecil 
Wayne, and his life's blood ebbed away on that damp, 
cold ground, and his noble heart ceased its beating there ; 
the hand, that had held mine so lovingly, in parting only 
a few short hours before, grew motionless there; his 
lips that had called me endearing names grew silent 
there ; those large wistful eyes, that had looked so plead- 
ingly into mine when he bade me his last farewell, grew 
sightless there. Was there ever a sadder day? It 
seemed to me that my life from that time on was as 
a day without the sun, a night without a star. I raved 
in delirium for weeks, verging on the confines of the 
grave. I never saw my heart's love more, they knew too 
well I could not endure to look at his dead, cold face. 
He was carried to a distant city, the home of his birth, 
and tender hands laid him away and left him sleeping. 
Yes, he is sleeping, Carlyle, God and the angels re- 
ceived him ; I know that his last night on earth was spent 
in sweet communion with his Maker, and then was he 
not always just and good. 

"You see me here, little girl, a sad, cheerless woman ; 
many winters have passed over my head, leaving their 
snow upon it, yet I know it will be summer, eternal 
summer, when Howard Grahamme and Barbara Carlyle 
meet." 

Blinding tears were coursing their way down her 
cheeks as these last words fell from her lips. This here- 
tofore emotionless woman was deeply stirred to-night. 



Short Stories and Poems 15 

Whether to leave her alone with her grief, or to 
throw my arms around her in loving sympathy, I scarce 
could tell. After a few bitter sobs she exclaimed, 
"Never, Carlyle, in all these thirty years, has my heart 
given vent to its feelings, but in some way, I know not 
how, the fountain has burst forth to-night. Forgive me, 
little girl, if I have given you pain, you are far too young 
to know aught of earth's sorrows." 

My dear aunt lost sight of the fact that she was only 
two years my senior when that bitter cup of woe was 
placed to her lips, turning youth into old age, and the 
fair bud into a faded flower. My whole soul went out 
in sympathy to the suffering, uncomplaining woman. 
Leaving my low seat at her feet, I arose and threw my 
arms caressingly around her. "Oh, my dear, darling 
aunt Babara, would that I could have shared your grief 
all these years, if in that way I could have mitigated 
one moment's pain, or been a balm to your wounded, 
bleeding heart I" 

The melancholy of the early evening only deepened 
with that sad recital, and although I had always longed 
to hear Aunt Babara's romance, yet it pained me beyond 
expression, to see the ashes of the bitter past so deeply 
stirred, and to see that beneath them were the brightest 
coals, coals that would never cease their burning. 

Oh ! with what patience and silent resignation this 
sorrow had been borne, never bewailing her fate, or cast- 
ing her grief upon others. Her heart is almost worn out 
I thought, as I looked into her face that night. The 
urn containing the rare flowers is fast crumbling. I 
had never before had such feelings as took possession 
of my very being as I sat and gazed upon my aunt after 
she had unlocked the innermost recesses of her heart and 



16 Short Stories and Poems 

laid it bare. After a little while she withdrew to her 
chamber. I sat with busy thought gazing into the dying 
embers. A presentiment of coming evil haunted me. 
Can it be that I am to hear that father or mother are 
ill; I must go into the city on the morrow and spend 
a while with them. I sat harboring such unpleasant 
thoughts until the little clock on the mantel pointed to 
the hour for retiring. I arose and went to my room. 
After a prayer for all loved ones, I retired with a de- 
termination to drive away all presentiments and fears. 
But reader they come sometimes only as a gentle re- 
minder of a storm, so as to stay its hand and force. 

I had scarcely fallen into a sweet slumber, before 
Emily, my aunt's maid, came in the most startling man- 
ner to arouse me. ""Miss Babara is very ill, do Miss 
Carlyle come right now." I hastened at the greatest 
speed to my aunt's \room, and found as I instantly 
thought, and the family physician immediately said, that 
it was all from the heart, just its giving away. 

On the following morning mother and father came 
in answer to our summons. They found the spirit tak- 
ing its flight; she only looked into their faces pointing 
upward. In a little while the angels bore her home. 
Mother was utterly crushed, the shock and suddenness 
of it all, was more than she could well bare, she and 
Aunt Babara had been such loving sisters. 

We laid her away to sleep, just as she said they did 
Howard Grahamme. Her grave was bedewed with bit- 
ter tears, for we loved her dearly. 

Yet we felt that Howard Grahamme and Babara 
Carlyle had been re-united up there; and that earth's 
winter was passed, and she was basking in heaven's 
eternal sunshine, where it was summer always. 



Short Stories and Poems 17 

In looking over her effects we found stored away 
where she knew I would find it — her will. She be- 
queathed the old house and grounds, together with her 
handsome jewels, to me, and mother an equal amount of 
property in an adjoining town. 

I looked around on my vast possessions and thought, 
I love you old house, and every inch of ground for miles 
around, but never could I live within your walls. In 
fancy I could ever see Aunt Babara as she sat that 
night unlocking the innermost recesses of her heart, and 
it seemed in fancy I could hear the cords snap asunder, 
as they soon did. 

I am a woman grown to wife's estate. I have a 
little Babara the very image of the dead one, but in all 
these years, my thoughts cannot revert to that one sad 
night without a shudder, and I find myself saying as 
did my darling aunt, "But it will be summer, eternal 
summer when Howard Grahamme and Babara Carlyle 
meet." 



18 Short Stories and Poems 

VALLEY FARM. 

Where to spend the summer? was a question per- 
plexing mother, Kate and me. We had been to Long 
Branch, Saratoga, up the Hudson, stopping off at the 
various picturesque points; summered at the Adriond- 
acks, Cape May, and many other fashionable resorts too 
numerous to mention. 

''Mother," exclaimed Kate, "I am tired of all this 
fashion and folly, I do so long for a quiet, sweet rest 
some where. All the winter attending german after 
german, reception after reception, giving entertainment 
after entertainment, until it has become a horrid bore. 
Going out often when you would give the world for an 
evening at home ; in fact living the life of a martyr." 

Mother, dear good woman as she was, believed in 
girls living brilliantly, as she termed it, not sitting 
down snuffing ashes around their own heartstone, but, 
like a butterfly, flitting from place to place sipping the 
sweets in fashion's whirl. 

"Kate, I am surprised you can't appreciate the ad- 
vantages given you, advantages so many girls are de- 
prived of ; I think you show a very great want of grati- 
tude," was mother's curt answer. 

"I wouldn't have you feel that way about my ideas 
on the subject, but you know it is but natural to wish 
a change ; yet, dear, good mother, take us where you 
wish." 

Time wore on, yet there was no more said about 
where we should go until the parching June sun made 
us mindful some move must be made. Mother had never 
spent a summer in the city, and, not being very strong, we 
knew it was necessary she should be making her plans. 



Short Stories and Poems 19 

One day a letter came to her from her sister Ruth, 
one of the sweetest characters that ever lived, the very- 
salt of the earth, whose home was in the Valley of 
Virginia. 

"Read it," exclaimed Kate and I in one voice; we did 
so delight in hearing from the dear creature. It was 
the sweetest, tenderest letter in which she expressed 
what happiness it would give her to have us with her 
during the summer, and how much joy it gave her to 
know that mother felt she would be glad to come. Now 
that was our first intimation that one word had been 
written to Aunt Ruth on the subject. Mother had kept 
it all to herself, just waiting to give us a happy sur- 
prise when the answer came. 

Kate and I could scarcely coax sleep to our eyelids 
that night. Far happier were we than if we had been 
planning a tour around the world. Well we remembered 
the few visits made to that unpretentious valley home. 
We knew a queen reigned there, crowning each subject 
within its walls with joy and peace. And oh what a 
worry and brain work was spared us, for did we not have 
an over abundance of everything needful in the way of a 
summer outfit for Aunt Ruth's home. So we had but to 
pack our trunks and speed away. 

We were a day and night in reaching the valley. 
When we arrived at the nearest little station, we found 
a large old-fashioned country gig awaiting us, with Aunt 
Ruth's old trusted driver, who had come into the family 
when mother was in long baby clothes, seated on top ; and 
whose dear old head should be peering out, but our darl- 
ing aunt's. Kate and I exclaimed aloud at the sight of 
that familiar face that had remained the same for 
twenty years. Mother often said she didn't believe it 



20 Short Stories and Poems 

would ever grow old, like other faces. With kisses and 
hugs 'till our hats were all to one side, and our hair in 
disheveled masses, we finally proceeded on our way. 

After an hours jogging and trotting over the country 
roads, and talking all at once 'till we were almost hoarse, 
we reached dear old ''Valley Farm." 

There we found awaiting us, another face grown 
beautiful with age, Aunt Hulda's, though no relation of 
ours, merely a sister of Aunt Ruth's dead husband; but 
she had been a fixture at "Valley Farm" for years, and 
it wouldn't have been the same place to us without her. 
She gave us all such a cordial greeting, exclaiming, "And 
this is Mary, Kate and Berta, come back after all these 
years. La ! Berta has grown so large Aunt Hulda would 
not have recognized in her the little wee baby she used 
to lull to sleep on her knee." 

We hadn't been to the farm for several years, and it 
seemed an age to these dear old people. 

The next to offer greetings was old Aunt Dinah, the 
cook at grandma's home when Aunt Ruth was beseiged 
with lovers ; and mother a tiny babe. 

"La bless me, here dese chilluns dun come back; well 
if dey ain't as grand a two as you'd ever wish to see, 
jest good 'nough for Aunt Dinah's eyes to rest on, 
any way." 

After a little quiet, for we were quite worn out from 
our journey, we were invited into the little summer 
dining-room, where, I can tell you, Aunt Dinah had 
everything in abundance: nice, fresh milk and butter, 
steaming hot waffles, chickens, fried as brown as a bun, 
and the most delicious preserves, of Aunt Ruth's and 
Aunt Hulda's own making. Every thing in the city 
seemed stale in comparison with Aunt Dinah's repast. 



Short Stories and Poems 21 

After taking a little stroll in the flower garden, the 
pride of Aunt Ruth's heart, we were obliged to retire 
and rest our wearied frames. 

Now did any one ever see two purer, sweeter rooms 
than Aunt Ruth always kept as guest's chambers. The 
snow white dimity curtains were looped back with deli- 
cate ribbons ; and the antique furniture that had been 
handed down from sire to son ; but no other could please 
Aunt Ruth so well, and so immaculate was it kept that 
it was a gem of cleanliness, and never looked old. 

"Oh, mother !" Kate said, as she entered these rooms, 
"dont ever talk to me of your fashionable resorts again. 
I wouldn't give one month of Aunt Ruth's sweet rest 
and peace for one-half dozen summers at Long Branch, 
Saratoga or Newport. Here one has time to think, and 
cultivate the mind God has given." 

We arose next morning with the sun. Aunt Ruth 
was strictly business, and every detail was executed with 
perfect system and regularity. Although she was the 
dearest little hostess in all the world, yet she would per- 
mit no sluggards in her home. 

We spent the earlier portion of the day in rambling 
over the farm, except mother and Aunt Hulda, who re- 
mained to keep her company. Mother never liked the 
country, and could see no pleasure to be derived from 
such a ramble. But how we did enjoy the cool, running 
brooks, and wild flowers growing on the hillside. Were 
there ever such lovely ferns? Aunt Ruth was so pleased 
to see us such lovers of Nature, she said it brought us 
nearer to Nature's God. 

The first Sunday of our stay was hailed with delight. 
It had been so long since we had worshipped in any but 
our own stylish city churches ; here we could go and re- 



22 Short Stories and Poems 

ceive an inspiration divine. The old lumbering gig was 
brought out in full time. Kate and I donned white mus- 
lin robes and rustic hats. We felt they were in better 
keeping with the costumes of our neighbors. 

After a ride of over two miles, we reached the 
dearest, sweetest, little church nestled in a shady grove. 
I thought, as we entered it, "Here is Kate's haven of 
rest." 

Aunt Ruth had occupied the same pew for twenty 
years; of course they were all free, yet every one knew 
just who loved that one particular place, and so it was 
always assigned her. It was directly under the pulpit, 
therefore we had to occupy a very conspicuous seat, if 
we pleased Aunt Ruth. 

We were enraptured at the beautiful congregational 
singing. No paid choir in Aunt Ruth's church. How 
beautiful the Father was praised in those simple hymns, 
and the little organ as it pealed forth its melodious 
notes, seemed in such perfect keeping with the surround- 
ings. 

When the rector, a handsome, graceful young man, 
stepped forth, all eyes were riveted upon him. His ser- 
mon was full of pathos and power, his pronunciation 
faultless. 

"It seems," said mother, on our return home, "Mr. 
DeVille would seek a wider field, he could surely com- 
mand a handsome salary in one of our city churches. 

"You forget, my dear," quickly replied Aunt Ruth, 
"money is not what our dear rector is seeking. He has 
had several fine offers, but he says his flock is here, and 
he, the tender shepherd, cannot leave it." 

Aunt Ruth found an opportunity after services to in- 
vite him to Valley Farm on the following Wednesday 



Short Stories and Poems 23 

evening, so that we could meet her dear pastor and know 
him just as she did. 

He came, and it is needless to say we were all well 
pleased, even fastidious mother could but express her 
great admiration. The farm doors were ever open to 
the young man, and need I say he often found his way 
there during the summer. For, to make a long story 
short, he was well pleased with Kate from the first. 

Aunt Dinah's eyes were soon opened. "I do think de 
rector do cum to Valley Farm enuf. I thought he did 
cum of 'en to see Miss Ruth and Miss Hulda; den he'd 
cum once a week, but 'fore my marster! he is comin' 
here, eber two or three days now, why I've dun cooked 
three suppers for dat man dis week. It peers mighty 
plain to old Dinah he's sot eye on Miss Kate. Well to 
my thinking, he'd not find her betters in many a days 
walk, so let him cum. You know Dan'l, how of'en you 
use be cumin' 'round me, when we'd sot our eyes on one 
nudder." 

This little secret was poured into the ears of old 
Uncle Daniel, the coachman, as he sat half dreaming un- 
der the shade of a wide-spreading oak in the back-yard. 

Mother had her ideal husband for Kate and me, many 
a towering air castle had she built. Our ideas were so 
different from mother's. How she did love pretention 
and style. She had hurried us into society at such an 
early age, that by the time we were old enough to make 
our debut, we were thoroughly weary with its false 
glitter and show. So it seemed to us if there was an 
earthly eden, it was right here at Aunt Ruth's home, in 
Virginia's valley, and how we did enjoy worship at the 
quiet country church, where all was simple, pure and 
Christ-like ; shut out, as it were, from a false world of 
vanity and show. 



24 Short Stories and Poems 

Our summer hadn't been half spent before mother 
saw her visions of splendor were fast crumbling to de- 
cay, for Kate lost no time in telling her the rector had 
proposed, and only awaited her sanction. 

Aunt Ruth was the happiest old soul; and told us it 
had been her prayer ever since we came. 

Mother could not suppress her admiration for the 
talented young man. "But, oh, if he only did live in the 
city. How could she endure to see Kate isolated from all 
the world." Her wishes had always been paramount, 
yet Kate couldn't let them lie between her and happiness, 
and she well knew, in time all would be well. 

Aunt Ruth had always a great influence over mother, 
and she, if nothing else, would bring things about all 
right. Then, wasn't the rector grand and noble, speak- 
ing for himself? 

He insisted the marriage should be near the last of 
our happy summer ; neither he nor Aunt Ruth could hear 
of Kate going back home to have the rites solemnized. 
Aunt Ruth must be present, and she didn't feel equal 
to such a journey; then the rector was anxious all his 
dear flock should witness the ceremony. 

Mother wouldn't listen at the proposition when it 
was first made her, but, after awhile, she relented and 
gave her full consent. 

The day arrived at length, a day divinel/ fair. All 
nature seemed to smile upon the nuptials. The little 
church was a bower of roses and ferns ; it was my ideal 
of an earthly paradise, as I gazed upon it. No pains 
had been spared by a devoted congregation to make 
all things pleasing to the man that stood before them, 
pointing the way to God. 

Our rector from the city had been invited to perform 






Short Stories and Poems 25 

the ceremony. As he stood, the reverent man, with 
silvery locks, uniting those two young hearts, with 
youth's promises before them, and the world's glitter 
and show behind them, I thought — how beautiful the love 
that God hath given. 

Aunt Ruth gave a lovely reception, after which the 
happy couple, accompanied by our rector, mother and me, 
went to our city home. A few days with us, and the 
two were off for a tour. After that was over they went 
back to their little flock; Kate taking possession of the 
cosiest little nook, her life's dream. Aunt Ruth and Aunt 
Hulda were two delighted souls to have her and the rec- 
tor so near, and mother in time laid aside her foolish 
pride and ambition for show, and became to feel that 
this life is made up of something grander and nobler, and 
to take infinite delight in Kate, her little home, and last, 
but not least, the rector. 



26 Short Stories and Poems 



MY SISTER MADGE. 

Were there ever two happier maidens than Madge and 
me ? Do you wonder when I tell you we had the dearest 
most indulgent of parents, and our beautiful country 
home was a perfect little eden. We had an abundance 
of worldly goods, our wishes were gratified by the ask- 
ing, and we could but revel in the sunshine of home-com- 
forts, to our heart's content. Our education had of 
course not been neglected, and after we had outgrown the 
dearest, sweetest of governesses, we had our finishing 
touches at one of the finest city seminaries for young 
ladies. We went back home thoroughly equipped for 
our entrance upon the "arena of life." How we did en- 
joy our little eden bower after all these days of toil 
in school. Our parents were so delighted to have us 
back after all those weary months of separation. Well 
do I remember with what "an air of pride" father 
watched us a few mornings after our return from the 
city, as we sat out on the lawn perusing some favorite 
poem ; after looking at us for awhile he exclaimed : "Ah ! 
my little doves, how glad father is to have you come 
back to the dovecot again." And putting a hand upon 
each head, he said: "Home wasn't the same without our 
Madge and Carol, in fancy I could hear your loving 
voices about the house when I guess you were delving 
into your Latin or Greek. Your mother's eye had often a 
far away longing look, I knew too well she was thinking 
of her absent girls. Well you have come back now and 
we have but to make this home our little paradise," with 
this he turned and walked down the lawn. "How happy 
it should make us," said Madge, "to see our father and 



Short Stories and Poems 27 

mother appreciate our home-coming; I wonder if two 
girls ever had such dear, darling parents. 

"We are indeed blessed," said I, and do you know, 
Madge, I am such a little simpleton as to imagine such 
earthly pleasure cannot last, that sooner or later the alloy 
will come into our gold." 

"Oh ! why do you think so, Carol ? I am sure there 
are no signs of a coming storm ; your head is too young 
for such sage predictions, why one would think you were 
dear mama talking." 

This was in the beginning of the golden summer ; the 
June roses were shedding their fragrance all about us ; 
the beautiful little summer birds were carolling over our 
heads. All nature had donned its brightest garb. Per- 
sons from the city were fleeing countryward for com- 
fort, leaving parched walls and blistering streets and go- 
ing where the wild-flower and thyme grew in luxuriance. 
On one of these hot June afternoons a stranger came 
to our eden home. My father was the first to greet him 
as he came up the long, winding walkway leading to the 
house. He was ever hospitable and kind and no one 
seeking shelter with him was ever turned away. He 
grasped the stranger's hand with as much cordiality as if 
he was meeting a tried and trusted friend. The stranger 
perceiving the manner of man he was meeting, lost no 
time in making his wishes known. He was a gentleman 
from the city; he had brought down his artist brushes, 
etc., intending to spend a few weeks in that romantic 
part of the country where he was sure of finding an 
abundance of material for his sketches ; he had been at- 
tracted to our lovely home by its beautiful surround- 
ings and was sure he could but find peace and comfort 
within its walls, if father would but admit him as a 
summer boarder. 



28 Short Stories and Poems 

Father ever ready to put others at ease instantly 
showed him a seat on the beautifully kept lawn, and tell- 
ing him there could be no objection, but, of course, wife 
must be consulted, hastened quickly into our little sitting- 
room where mother sat with some light work which she 
delighted so in doing; her dear hands were never idle. 
With a heart overflowing in kindness towards all the 
world she quickly told father to hasten back and bid the 
stranger welcome to our little eden. The guest chamber 
was always kept in readiness. He was immediately 
shown up where everything for his comfort awaited him. 
After refreshing himself from a day's journey, he was 
invited into our little parlor and introduced to mother, 
Madge and me. He had told father his name out on the 
lawn, and to his surprise and delight had found him to 
be a nephew of an old boyhood friend. That settled it 
all with father, no more recommendations were neces- 
sary. Madge and I had donned some light, airy, summer 
fabric so becoming to girls of our type, and the fair 
stranger was handsome to behold as he walked into our 
presence. I could but note the mutual admiring glance 
as Madge and the stranger met, and I thought as I looked 
at my sister that I had never seen her fairer than on 
that June evening, clad in that soft, clinging gown, with 
the fragrant June roses at her throat, and a faint color 
suffusing her fair cheeks. Yes, my sister was truly a 
beautiful woman and queenly in her bearing. I did not 
wonder the stranger failed to conceal his admiration. 
After a dainty tea, we again repaired into the parlor where 
music was the order of the evening. Our guest seemed 
to thoroughly enjoy it, and never did Madge's voice ring 
out so clear and sweet; she seemed to be inspired. I 
almost held my breath, so amazed was I. Ah ! the 
stranger I could see was enraptured. 



Short Stories and Poems 29 

After Mr. Fenton (for such was his name) had re- 
paired to his room, father, turning to mother exclaimed : 
"Well, wife, we need not regret giving our Madge vocal 
lessons this last term, why I had no idea she possessed 
such a voice." It seemed from that time on everything 
she did was perfection. She rode with more grace, she 
talked with more fluency, she smiled more sweetly, she 
dressed more tastily, if she placed a bunch of flowers at 
her throat or belt they seemed as natural as if growing 
in mother earth. Can you wonder the stranger had no 
eye for anything but our Madge? 

Ah ! those long summer days were happy ones to 
them, between riding, boating, and long strolls through 
the vast grounds surrounding our home, the hours flew 
on wings, and but little time did the young artist have 
for sketching. He showed his wonderful skill, however, 
by a picture of Madge and me standing among the roses, 
and our little eden in the background. He insisted it 
would not be complete without father and mother, and 
after several entreaties they consented to be sketched. 
He named the picture "Eden Bower," and it was a fair 
likeness of our happy family and lovely home when this 
stranger entered it. 

The long summer drew to an end, as does all things 
earthly, and Mr. Fenton's visit was over. What a 
change came over our Madge as the few days allotted for 
his stay were rapidly passing, and although she would not 
admit it to any of us, I well knew that her heart had 
been given to the summer boarder. The last night of 
his stay, however, he called mother and father into the 
parlor, saying he would like a short conference with 
them. He then told them that their daughter Madge 
had completely won his heart, and that he could never 



30 Short Stories and Poems 

return to the city a happy man unless they gave their 
consent for him to come in a few months and make her 
his wife. What a painful struggle it was for these dear 
parents to consent to such a proposition, but Mr. Fenton 
assured them he had won her heart and all she wished 
for was their consent. When did such a father and 
mother refuse to do anything that would promote their 
children's happiness? So they could but tell him if such 
was Madge's wish they could never stand as a barrier be- 
tween her and her future happiness, and if she remained 
unchanged toward him until the time set for his return 
to make her his own, they could but give their consent. 
"But Mr. Fenton," said our mother, "to see Madge go- 
ing away from us and belong to another touches a cord 
in my heart and snaps it in twain, she has been a dear 
dutiful daughter, and how can we give her up?" 

"Yes, little wife," said father, "your own mother felt 
the same way when I took you from her tender loving 
arms, such is life, my dear. We rear our children but 
to see others come between and supplant us in their affec- 
tions." And turning to Mr. Fenton he continued, "You 
must realize sir this is no trifling jewel you have won, 
but that the possession of a woman's heart is riches far 
above precious stones set in gold unalloyed, and some- 
thing you cannot too highly value." 

"I fully realize," he quickly exclaimed, "the love of 
such a woman as Madge is a fortune to any man, and I 
can assure you sir my life's effort will be to become 
worthy of the trust." 

On the morning following this conversation, our 
boader took his leave amidst hand-shakings and general 
regrets. Madge, to conceal her deep feelings, complained 
of headache and repaired to her room immediately after 



Short Stories and Poems 31 

Mr. Fenton's departure. It was then I had a private 
conference with mother. Some how those old presenti- 
ments would live and grow with me, let me try ever 
so hard to dispel them; so I must unburden my heart to 
some one, who so worthy the confidence as our dear 
mother, who always held a listening ear to all our joys 
and sorrows. 

"Oh, mother I" I exclaimed, "do you know I have a 
presentiment of coming trouble in this little summer ro- 
mance of Madge's. What it is I cannot exactly tell, but 
something whispers there is a cloud gathering over our 
little eden. I can't say Mr. Fenton is not all I would 
have him be, that his love is not genuine and sincere, 
that he is not worthy the love Madge bestows upon him, 
but oh, there is a horrid something, I can't tell just what, 
that haunts me constantly !" Mother turned her eyes 
toward the beautiful September sun that came peeping 
through the sitting-room windows, and there sat in deep- 
est thought for some minutes; then turning to me, she 
said: "Well, my daughter, I am sure I can't tell why 
such presentiments should fill your young head. Mr. 
Fenton has noble blood in his veins; his uncle was your 
father's trusted friend, so he does not come to us en- 
tirely unknown; he tells us what progress he has made 
in the art world and that he is fast rising to distinction. 
He and Madge have been constantly together since the 
first day of his coming among us and should therefore 
know something of each other's disposition; their hearts 
seem so strongly linked together, your father nor I can 
well break the chain. I have known parents to inter- 
fere in cases of this kind and thereby bring the bitterest 
woe to loving hearts. We will but do the best we can, 
leaving the unfinished work to God." 



32 Short Stories and Poems 

After laying my heart bare to mother I felt an un- 
speakable relief, and could but upbraid myself for har- 
boring such foolish thoughts. And as letter after letter 
came from the absent lover and Madge found in them 
the sweetest comfort and peace, so overflowing were 
they in love and tenderness that I felt more and more 
what a simpleton I had been, and my conscience did so 
smite me that I felt like apologizing to some one, I knew 
not whom, for entertaining so foolish a presentiment. 

We had gay visitors from the city, and in my en- 
deavor to make their stay pleasant, all thoughts of com- 
ing evil were dispelled. Whenever a letter came Madge 
would forget all else and steal gently away, holding sweet 
communion with her absent lover. If he should not 
prove true, I thought, what would be the result, for no 
girl it seemed to me was ever so deeply in love. There, 
I thought such foolish ideas were dead, how hard when 
mistrust once steals into the heart to uproot it. But 
hers was such a big loving heart so overflowing with 
sensitiveness and pride that I knew a false act of his 
would send an arrow through it, piercing it to death. No 
one knew Madge as I, not even our mother. 

Our guests' visit was over. They had not long re- 
turned to the city, before a loving epistle came clothed 
in such tenderness, telling Madge that all business ar- 
rangements were about perfected and but little remained 
for him to do but hasten to "Eden Bower" claiming his 
bride. Preparations commenced from that day. Father 
was very lavish, withholding nothing necessary to a 
handsome trousseau. Madge's taste was exquisite, and 
she was not long in sending to the city orders for the 
loveliest, daintiest outfit. In a few weeks box after 
box came containing these costly articles. Madge's whole 



Short Stories and Poems 33 

heart seemed centered in her lover and her trousseau. 
Her confidence knew no bounds in the man to whom 
she was plighted, but I never opened a box or closed it 
but to feel some hope was crushed beneath its lid. Ah, 
me ! that bridal robe of the costliest, richest, rarest satin, 
old lace fit for a queen to wear adding elegance to the 
satin gown. It seemed as if my heart ceased to do its 
bidding when that robe was spread out to view, but 
mother and Madge were delighted with its splendor, and 
why should I not be? 

I determined they should neither know my feelings, 
so after a few hasty compliments I left the room. 

Mother turning to Madge, exclaimed: "Carol dis- 
likes to look at all this ; she realizes how soon you are to 
leave us ; poor little dove, how lonely she will be for there 
never lived two more loving sisters." 

Madge turned aside to brush away a tear, saying: 
"Yes, mother, the separation is painful to us both, but 
Carol can spend so much of the time with me, and you 
and father are so mindful of your children's pleasures 
that she will ever find some diversion here." 

A few days after the above conversation Madge re- 
ceived a letter from her lover saying he had been un- 
expectedly called away from the city, and as no definite 
day had been set for the wedding nothing would be said 
about it until his return. 

The night the letter came I tossed from pillow to 
pillow, at last fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming that 
Madge was standing over a fearful precipice, one step 
would hurl her into eternity. I awoke crying aloud, and 
begging some one to save my sister. The dream so un- 
nerved me that I was unable to leave my room for several 
days. 



34 Short Stories and Poems 

Alas, dear reader, little knew I what news awaited 
me ! November with its chilling frost had come. Father, 
mother, Madge and our dear governess, who was with 
us on a short visit, were seated in our cosy sitting-room 
around a glowing fire, when I suddenly opened the door 
and walked in. They were all delighted that I should 
be well enough to join them, and exclaimed, as if in 
one voice, "What a delightful evening we shall spend." 

I had scarcely gotten seated before the messenger 
father usually sent for the mail, returned, handing in a 
letter in Mr. Fenton's well known hand. My sister in- 
stantly broke the seal, but to read a few lines and fall 
back in a swoon on the chair in which she was sitting. 

So excited were we that no one could look at the 
false missive at once. Ah ! when we did : listen, all who 
feel for woman's woes : 



"Dear Madge: — 

"I come to you with a burdened heart, for well I 
know you are one of earth's noblest women, therefore 
I would do you no farther wrong. 

"I never told you of a little girl I loved before she'd 
grown to womanhood, and how she was coyed away 
from me, placed in a convent, and I never permitted 
to see her face. She is now a woman and with a fortune 
in her hands defies bolts and bars. It was in answer to 
a letter of her's that I left the city when I wrote you not 
many days ago. Just one sight of that woman, Madge, 
and all my old love was rekindled. Well I know I can 
never love another as I do her. She knew nothing of 
our engagement for she is the truest of women, and 
would never cause one heart pang to another. 



Short Stories and Poems 35 

"I have laid the case before you, and if you feel you 
could be happy wedded to a man whose heart is another's, 
I ask no release, but I could not stand before the altar 
with all this locked in my breast. 

"Had I never seen this woman more the love of other 
days would have been as nothing to me. I would not 
give you a pang for all the world ; but I feel in justice to 
us both you should know all. Act as you think best, 
you are a woman capable of judgment." 

When the contents of the letter had been read, 
I fell on my knees and sobbed aloud. The whole 
house was deeply moved. Father, strong man as he 
was, walked up and down the long hall unceasingly. 

Woman's pride, what lengths and breadths it has. 

Poor Madge suffered as much from that as from the 
loss of the man she had so trusted. 

Mother and I carefully hid away in an unused trunk 
all those lovely articles that had given her such joy to 
receive, but somehow the pain was no more to me to see 
them laid away than it had been to receive them, my 
forebodings had been so great. 

Father answered Mr. Fenton's letter releasing him 
forever. Under no circumstances would he have one of 
his daughters wed a man whose heart was another's. 
His letter was short and just to the point. 

So ended Madge's summer romance. 

Alas ! could it have ended in every sense of the word, 
but my sister was of such a proud and sensitive nature, 
that do all we could, nothing could divert her. The idea 
of having bestowed her love upon a man whose heart 
was another's, haunted her by night and day. 

Christmas came, always a joyous season to us. We 



36 Short Stories and Poems 

planned to have the festivities go on as usual ; our same 
number of friends were invited. The house was dec- 
orated with mistletoe and evergreens. Apparently Madge 
was happy with her guests, but ah me, I knew full well 
it was only feigned, the heart was breaking! 

The warm spring days came only to find our dove 
drooping its wings lower and lower. 

Finally mother, father and I grew desperate and 
came to the conclusion something must be done. We 
planned a trip abroad. Italy, fair Italy, would certainly 
awaken new thoughts, causing her to forget the past so 
far as woman could forget. She acceded to our wishes 
with great reluctance. Earth held no charms for her. 
Italy, with its soft genial clime, would be no more to 
her than her native land. 

She, in company with father, went, however, but as 
she predicted, all to no avail. Father seeing nothing 
could benefit her, and as she was continually longing for 
home, mother and me decided to gratify her wishes to 
return. 

Can I ever forget the look of despair upon father's 
face the day of their home-coming? How tenderly he 
lifted her out of the carriage into our dear mother's 
arms. 

Ah me, what sorrow had the summer boarder brought 
to "Eden Bower." 

Madge was borne by loving hands to her room, and 
laid upon her own bed, there to languish away. No 
pain. The most skilful physician pronounced it simply 
a broken heart. 

That was a sorrowful night at "Eden Bower." We 
all saw too plainly our Madge would be with us but a 
few short weeks. Father and mother shed their tears 
together. 



Short Stories and Poems 37 

A few days, and June has come, the month of roses. 
Just one year ago the stranger came. Madge called to 
me one morning in the beginning of the month, and 
bade me sit beside her and hold her thin white hand in 
mine. "Do you know, Carol, just one year ago he came, 
the June roses were blooming all about us just as they 
are now. Do you remember how we bedecked ourselves 
in them, and awaited his coming in the parlor? Oh, Carol, 
Carol, would he had never come to 'Eden Bower !' " 

She turned away, closing her eyes, and said no more. 
It was the first time she had made such strong allu- 
sions to the bitter past. We all decided from the first 
it was better never to mention it to her. Father merely 
told her he had answered Mr. Fenton's letter, leaving 
nothing for her to do. 

How heart-breaking it was to see our Madge fade 
away day by day, and know her stay on earth could 
almost be counted by the hour. Our dear governess 
came to be with us until the end came. 

We were all seated around her bedside a few days 
after she opened her heart to me, I saw she had some- 
thing she wished to say, finally her faint voice broke the 
stillness : "Carol, the roses will still be blooming, and I 
be gone, they are refreshed by the soft summer rains, 
and the gentle dews of heaven, but nothing can refresh 
me; and Carol, when I am gone place a bunch of the 
purest and whitest on by bosom just as I wore them — 
that night." 

Poor mother's sobs were heard throughout the room. 
Turning to her, Madge said : "Mother, why do you 
weep? The gates of the beautiful city are left ajar to 
receive me, and there I shall find an 'Eden Bower' where 
you will all come soon. You and father have been kind, 



38 Short Stories and Poems 

loving parents, but nothing can hinder my journey 
heavenward." 

Our trusted friend realizing our intense agony, arose 
and commenced stroking the fair hair of the dying girl. 
With that she gently fell asleep, and sweetly slept during 
the night. On the following morning we saw her breath 
was growing fainter and fainter, and we knew too well 
her young life would soon be spent. In scarcely audible 
tones she summoned us to her, and pointing upwards 
whispered : "The angels are waiting, good-bye. " 

For the first time death had entered "Eden Bower" 
and borne away the fairest of its flowers; how could we 
lay away from sight one held so dear? The pure un- 
worn bridal robe was brought from its hiding place — we 
felt nothing else would be so appropriate — and the white 
roses were arranged just as she wore them — that night, 
for in fancy I could see her as she looked when she 
appeared before the stranger in girlhood's sweet sim- 
plicity. 

You that have had death enter the threshhold, and 
seen loved ones borne away, can conceive our bitter an- 
guish when we gazed upon our darling robed for the 
tomb. But what a consolation, the angels had received 
her triumphantly, and that she had found an eden far 
more resplendent than ours. • 



Short Stories and Poems 39 

FROM TENEMENT WALLS. 

(A Xmas Story.) 

"To-morrow is Christmas, the merriest, happiest time 
of all the year, Annette, but to us, it only brings sadness. 
Oh ! does it not recall one year ago, when father, you 
and I dwelt in our little cottage home, and all was bright 
within. Would that I could dream the day away, dream 
that we were again in that cottage home with poor, dear 
father." 

"Louise, my dear, your talk is vain, the little cottage 
home is now another's, and dear father, in heaven. All 
your sighs, dreams, and tears can make no change in 
us, we can but make the best of the present, and be 
thankful for the little we have." 

"Oh, Annette ! had not that base man, that father so 
trusted, defrauded us, we could still have occupied the 
little cottage. How could he have been so wicked, as to 
rob his partner's helpless children." 

"Some men, my dear, will stoop to anything for 
money. He knew father had left all the books and ac- 
counts with him, and that we knew nothing of business ; 
but, dwelling on that, makes our condition no better ; we 
can never regain one copper that is ours. It is a great 
shadow in our lives, but don't let it forever exclude the 
sunshine." 

"Annette, how can any sunshine enter these tene- 
ment rooms? I passed the cottage yesterday, and, do 
you know, I sobbed like a child at the sight of it. I 
drew my veil closer to hide the tears. In imagination, 
I could see dear father sitting in the south window, bask- 
ing in the sunshine; just as we saw him a few hours 



40 Short Stories and Poems 

before that fatal accident, when he lost his life 
on that ill-fated train. And don't you remember 
how he sat there on last Christmas day, when 
the earth was so beautifully covered with snow, 
and peered out into the streets, and how he said 
God had clothed the city in such a lovely Christmas robe, 
so becoming the season; and don't you know the little 
cottage was all bright with holly and mistletoe, and how 
much pleasure he took in its adornment; and when the 
few invited friends came in to dinner, how welcoming 
was his smile. He had such an entertaining gift, no 
wonder our home was always bright, and, Annette, how 
he loved to hear us sing. His old favorite songs, how 
they forever haunt me !" 

"Louise, my dear, do not brood over the past, I am 
sure our father would not have it so, for did he not 
always make the best of everything?" 

"Yes, I know he so often would say: 'Louise, my 
child, always hunt the silver lining to every cloud, it will 
be such a solace to you through life. Learn a lesson 
from your sister, she is a ray of sunshine. Why, if she 
comes into my chamber the darkest winter day, she makes 
it all bright and sunny there.' " 

"And how he did love a sunny nature; and for his 
sake, Louise, cultivate sunshine in the heart. I know 
these tenement walls are obnoxious to you, but, my sister, 
could they not be more barren? Are we not comfort- 
able ? Doesn't the little annuity left us by grandfather pay 
for these rented rooms ; and the little mite taken in from 
our music and art meet our other demands ? You forget, 
my dear, there are thousands of poor working girls in 
this great metropolis that haven't near the comforts that 
fall to our lot. What, if we do have to rise early, and 



Short Stories and Poems 41 

work late; hasn't God given us health and strength? 
Just look into one of the windows on Fifth Avenue, 
that we pass every day, at that poor girl, who has to be 
wheeled from room to room in an invalid's chair; 
she has riches, but would you exchange your tenement 
home for her Fifth Avenue residence, and give her your 
health, and take her burden on yourself? Let in the sun- 
shine, my dear, throw wide the windows, and let it pene- 
trate these poor tenement walls. As for me, I am thank- 
ful each night, that our great, loving Father has clothed, 
sheltered and fed me, through the day ; and how humbly 
do I ask for His help on the morrow." 

"Annette, you were always better than I. God 
has showered riches in your heart, my dear sister; He 
has filled it with contentment." 

"So would He fill yours, Louise, if you would only 
let Him. What is that you have in your hand?" 

"It is only the morning paper, lent me by a lady in 
the first tenement : she has read it, so said I need not re- 
turn it, consequently, I have been in no hurry to read it. 
I always scan the want columns first, thinking possibly 
there may be some outlet from these dreary walls, for 
you and me." 

"There it is again, Louise; don't look on your home 
as being such a dark prison. Of course I should be 
thankful if the want columns did point to something bet- 
ter, but I find comfort here, my dear, and why can't you 
also? If you peruse that paper far, you will see many 
a heart has as much, or more bitterness than we have 
ever known. Father and mother are gone, my dear, but 
have they not gone to heaven? And we should strive 
each day to live nearer our God than on yesterday, so, 
when the summons comes for us to follow them across 



4 2 Short Stories and Poems 

the dark river, we should feel and know that Christ 
would be our pilot, and heaven our home." 

"You were always an earthly angel, Annette, and as 
near heaven as one ever gets in this world." 

"Ah, Louise ! would I could live nearer and nearer 
every hour. It seemed dear father grew more spiritual 
day by day; and the very last hour that was given to 
mother on earth, was spent in telling us what beauties 
awaited her beyond the golden gates ; and that she could 
see them ajar, as if to let her in." 

"Religion is such a consolation, Annette, but our 
crosses are so heavy, I do grow weary." 

"Remember, my dear sister: 

" 'That the cross hard to be borne, 
Will shine all the brighter before the white throne.' " 

"Well, Annette, there is no use talking, I never could 
come into your presence with the sunshine all shut out of 
my heart, that you didn't open it's windows and let it 
in someway. What would I be without you? I am go- 
ing to read my paper, and forget my woes." 

With that she seated herself in a low rocker, and 
commenced its perusal. As usual, the want columns was 
first looked up. She had not proceeded far, however, 
before she cried out, almost breathlessly, "Listen, An- 
nette, can my eyes see aright; after one long, long year 
hunting for Uncle Philip, has he really come?" 

"What do you mean, Louise, surely you see nothing 
there of Uncle Philip?" 

"Oh ! here it is, read for yourself !" And with that, 
the excited girl handed the paper to her cool, collected 
sister. 



Short Stories and Poems 43 

"Wanted — to know the whereabouts of Lucas Barton, 
who came over to America from England, about the 
year i860, in the ship 'Umbria.' An answer to this ad- 
vertisement will be gladly received by Ms brother 
Philip. Address, Philip Barton, care Hotel Vienna." 

When Annette read the above, without speaking one 
word to her sister, she clasped her hands in thanks to 
her God, for being the instrument in bringing her uncle 
safely to them. In vain her father had endeavored to 
know of his brother's whereabouts, but in some way 
they had lost all trace of each other. 

The two orphans lost no time in hastening to Hotel 
Vienna, and calling for their uncle. The resemblance 
to their dead father was so discernible in the living uncle, 
that both wept bitterly when he came into their presence. 
They told him that the brother, he had come so far to 
find,' had been dead for twelve months, but they were his 
children. 

"Ah ! my dears, you need not tell me that, for do I 
not see the eyes of my brother in one face, and the firm, 
clear-cut mouth in the other?" Uncle Philip then told 
them that soon after his brother left England, he was 
stricken with a severe malady, and was taken to a hos- 
pital, where he lay at death's door for months. When 
he recovered, news reached him that the "Umbria" in 
which his brother sailed, had gone down at sea, losing 
all on board; and he never knew anything to the con- 
trary, until he accidently met a gentleman from New 
York, who told him he knew Lucas Barton, and he was 
a resident of that city. 

Both girls exclaimed in one voice, "Oh ! uncle Philip, 
father always thought you died in that hospital. Your 
name, he said, came out in the death list." 



44 Short Stories and Poems 

"Yes, my children, through some mistake, my name 
was put on the list of the dead." 

Strong man that he was, as he sat and looked at the 
children of his dead brother, the tears would come. Then 
they told of their bare tenement walls and how their 
idolized parent had, after years of toil, been defrauded of 
all his earnings by the man that should have proven the 
orphans' friend; how comfortable and happy they had 
been in their cottage home till the fatal accident took 
their father away. 

"Uncle Philip is an old man, my dears, older by five 
years than your father, and it appears mighty plain to 
him that it is only the goodness of God that has brought 
him over the ocean, finding two children to love him, 
yes, and care for him, as he walks down life's valley. 
Your tenement walls shall be exchanged for fairer ones, 
my dears, your uncle Philip has not come to you empty- 
handed, but with a well-filled purse. Fortune favored 
me after that year in the hospital, and although then on 
charity, every dollar was repaid with interest, and I now 
©we no man." 

"Oh ! uncle Philip, uncle Philip !" exclaimed the en- 
thusiastic Louise, "can we have back our cottage home ?" 
How that girl had always loved that spot! 

"Yes, my dear, or one far more pretentious, if you 
prefer it." 

They both told him that their father had always in- 
stilled in them, not to cherish a spirit of show and vanity, 
and they had grown up loving their own little home, and 
had added to its comfort, until none could ever take its 
place. It was then let to strangers, the rental going to 
their father's partner, as he had claimed that, with all 
else belonging to them. 



Short Stories and Poems 45 

Uncle Philip soon hailed a passing cab, and he and 
the girls lost no time in driving out to see the cottage. 
He then went with them to their home, and saw just 
how cheerless it was, and how the poor girls had to live 
under the same roof with people so far beneath them in 
culture and refinement. 

He immediately had them removed to Hotel "Vienna," 
until they could regain the little cottage, which they did, 
after paying its unjust and mercenary possessor twice 
its value. New York contained no happier girls than 
these two, the day they returned to their cottage home, 
and Uncle Philip's heart was overflowing to see such 
appreciation. 

"Oh! Uncle Philip," exclaimed Louise, "Annette has 
so long been telling me to open the windows of my soul, 
and let the sunshine in ; but, how hard it was to do that 
in that horrid place, but I do believe, my dear old uncle, 
the sun will shine here forever." 

"God has been so good to us, Louise, how can we 
ever again shut out the glad sunshine? Has He not 
brought Uncle Philip away across the sea to take dear 
father's place, and has He not given us back our home, 
and given mother and father one in heaven ? Oh ! Uncle 
Philip ! my life's aim will be to show Him my apprecia- 
tion, in giving you to us, and in doing that, He has 
given us all things needful." 

How happy these two girls made the old man, repay- 
ing him for all the years of toil in the old world. He 
had never had any children to call him father, so these 
girls were all in all to him. Annette's lovely disposition 
was so apparent to him, and Louise did let in the sun- 
shine. It seemed the year of privation taught her a 
lesson she might never have learned. Her daily contact 



46 Short Stories and Poems 

with her sister had a wonderful effect, and she grew into 
a lovely woman. 

The old uncle bequeathed all his wealth to the two 
girls at his death, and be his days many or few, a fortune 
awaited them. 

They never grew weary of smoothing his silvery hair, 
of singing a soft lullaby that he loved, as they would to 
a little babe, of kissing his furrowed brow, or taking 
his withered hands caressingly in theirs. They knew 
Uncle Philip's journey would soon be over, that the staff 
on which he leaned, was almost broken, but, they 
said to each other, "What an inheritance is his, beyond 
the pearly gates." 



Short Stories and Poems 47 



"ELMWOOD" DURING THE WAR. 

Our two dear brothers had enlisted and gone to 
fight for their country, leaving father, sister Alice, 
and myself, in charge, you might say, of Old Aunt 
Chloe and Uncle Joel, servants that had been handed 
down as heirlooms from sire to son. Our home was 
situated near Fussell's Mill, about twelve miles from 
Richmond, on the Darbytown road, and midway be- 
tween McClellan's and Lee's lines. 

Herbert and Paul were such bright, cheerful char- 
acters, that when they shouldered their muskets and 
marched out of the house, all of its sunshine went 
away with them. Father was growing old ; he had 
never rallied from the death of mother, which occurred 
two summers before the Civil War. He was naturally 
despondent, and I can see him now, as he stood in the 
doorway and watched his boys, which were the apples 
of his eye, leave home. With a shake of his head he 
exclaimed, "Oh ! Herbert and Paul, your poor old 
father will never see both, if either of you again." 
Sister Alice and I did all we could to make the best 
of a bad matter. "Oh, father," said Alice, "don't be 
so despondent ; many a soldier boy will live to see this 
cruel war over, and come home crowned with laurels." 
But, with all our encouraging words, it was many days 
before he was half way himself. What a sad time it 
was for my sister and me, though we had to keep 
up our spirits always when in father's presence; yet, 
when we saw the vacant seats at the family board, 
and when we gathered in our little sitting-room at 
evening, and saw not only one but three vacant, our 
hearts were almost crushed. Herbert and Paul were 



48 Short Stories and Poems 

dear lovers of music, and with Alice, who was a beauti- 
ful performer, to play our accompaniments, we formed, 
what the neighborhood termed, a fine quartette. 

It was days after the soldier boys bade us adieu 
before we dared raise the lid of the piano, that had 
always been such a comfort and pleasure to us, as well 
as to our friends. Old Aunt Chloe never failed since 
she first came into our family, two generations back, 
to notice everything going on in it. She saw Alice and 
myself were on the way to make ourselves sick; so, 
coming into the sitting-room one evening, she threw 
the old piano wide open, and turning to Alice said: 
"You git right up dar, Miss Alice, and play one of dem 
dear old songs, and you and Miss Nettie sing loud as 
you kin hollow. I'se dun tired all dis moping over 
Marse Herbert and Marse Paul, when dey dun gone 
to fight for dar country ; sides dat, you only make ole 
Massa wusser dan he would be." 

Now, Aunt Chloe felt the absence of these boys 
almost as much as we did, for had not the good old 
soul fondled them on her knee, and sung a lullaby song 
to them many a night when all around were asleep. 
Yet her common sense told her to look on the bright 
side. Well, according to her bidding, we sang as loud 
as we could, although every song brought the absent 
back more vividly. Yet we learned a lesson from Aunt 
Chloe. The neighbors would come in whenever it was 
possible and help to pass off our monotonous days. 

Reading was our greatest solace. If we could only 
keep in good literature, we could manage very well. 
Father's eyes had long since grown dim, so Alice and 
myself would read aloud to him. How eagerly were 
the Richmond papers, Whig, Examiner, and Enquirer 



Short Stories and Poems 49 

sought for. Uncle Joel went every other day to the 
nearest point to get them, as well as our letters. 

Herbert and Paul would try each time they wrote 
to buoy us up by making us think war life wasn't as 
dark as painted ; but well we knew how keenly they 
felt the many comforts denied them. Herbert was 
always a brave lad, and he was soon, by some daring 
act, made captain of his company. They would never 
write on the eve of a battle, but often, after all danger 
was passed, would come a thrilling letter. 

On one occasion Herbert wrote : "Oh, father, we 
had a grand skirmish yesterday ; had you been there, 
and seen how we boys routed the enemy, it would have 
done your heart good. We fought all day ; the contest 
was a difficult one ; the Union fellows fought like 
heroes, but we gained the victory in the end, and bore 
off the banner." "Oh, my dear boy," said my father, 
as we read, ,T am afraid one of these days you won't 
bear off the banner; your heart is set on the war; may 
God defend you." 

In a few days after this cheerful letter, came one 
that made our hearts' blood run cold. It was after the 
battle at Seven Pines : "Our hearts are sad to-night, 
dear father and sisters ; the battle is over, but alas, 
poor Charlie Trevillian is no more ; yes, the cruel bullet 
did its work, and he fell among the slain. You know 
how Paul loved him. Well, the boy stood over the 
dead body of his boyhood friend, and wept like a child. 
I tried for five hours to staunch his life-blood as it 
ebbed away. So many lay on that ghastly field Ave 
had to bide the surgeon's time. He sent many loving 
messages to his dear old mother. Looking up into our 
faces, as the pale moon shone upon him, casting its 
mellow light upon the battle-field, lined with the dead 



50 Short Stories and Poems 

and dying, he said : 'Tell mother I die happy for God 
and my country; tell her not to think I go into the 
presence of my Maker in spotted robes, but that they 
are whiter than snow. War has never caused me to 
forget the precepts she taught me, and the prayer I 
lisped at her knee. And there is another, bend lower, 
Herbert, my breath grows faint; tell her, my Annie, 
on the battle-field I died; I had hoped to come back 
bearing all the honors of a young soldier, and cause 
her heart to leap with joy and pride, and one day to 
have stood before the altar of our little church and 
been made man and wife ; but God has willed it other- 
wise. Take a tress of hair for her and mother, and 
tell them not to weep for me. And Paul when you go 
back to our dear old home, and see the large, spreading 
tree, under which we so often sat and talked together, 
and where we carved our names, only a few days before 
leaving, you'll think of me and miss me there.' His voice 
grew fainter, and holding up his trembling hand, he 
shook each of ours by turn, then closing those mild 
blue eyes, the sight of which I can never forget, he 
said: 'Good bye, old boys, I am going now; defend 
your country and honor your God.' I had to rally 
my spirits after this death-scene the best I could, on 
poor Paul's account, he was so depressed and crushed ; 
they had been chums at home and in war. I have 
written to both Charlie's mother and Annie, telling 
them all. Alice, you and Nettie must lose no time in 
going to see them, and do all you can to assuage their 
grief. This battle was a great defeat to our cause. 
The blue coats won the victory, but the next day we 
came out conquerors. I have not been so concerned 
since leaving home ; but, ah, it was that death scene 
in the pale moonlight that caused it. I will be all right 



Short Stories and Poems 51 

after a clay's march. Don't you, dear ones at home, 
dwell on the death of Charlie. You know such must 
be expected in war." 

But, notwithstanding this, our little band was 
deeply moved ; many a tear was shed for the dead sol- 
dier boy. We loved him dearly ; he had grown up 
with Paul, and our house was home to him always. 
Father grew more heart-weary than ever, after Charlie's 
death, and commenced longing for his boys' return. But 
they could never desert their regiment, and unless fur- 
loughs could be obtained, they must fight it out, though 
we greatly feared father's health would in time give com- 
pletely away. 

We went, as Herbert bade us, to see Charlie's mother 
and his sweetheart. They lived within a mile or two 
of each other. We found them heart-broken, and went 
back home sadder than before. 

As we have said, books and papers were our chief 
solace. Uncle Joel had been to Richmond and came 
back with a heavy supply. We had some friends in 
the city that sent us literature whenever an occasion 
presented itself. He came into the little sitting-room, 
where Alice and myself had seated ourselves, awaiting 
his return. "Oh, here he comes," exclaimed my sister 
as he entered the room with his packages. "Yes, and 
if you and Miss Nettie read all dese here papers, yo' 
eyes will be stone-blind, I tell you dat." How eagerly 
we listened to all the old darkey had to tell — what they 
were doing in Richmond, what they said, and what he 
saw. "Oh, Uncle Joel, is the war most over?" I asked. 
"What you dun talking 'bout chile; dis here war is jest 
begun ; dar is got to be signs and wonders carried 
out dat dat good old Book tells 'bout yet, 'fore dis war 



52 Short Stories and Poems 

is ober. No, no, Marse Herbert and Marse Paul have 
got to fight many a battle 'fore dis war am ober." And 
with this encouraging revelation he left the room in 
search of Aunt Chloe and the supper she'd kept await- 
ing him. 

Alice and I were soon lost in the perusal of the 
Examiner, when a rap was heard at the front door. 
Aunt Chloe always kept every outlet locked and 
barred long before the shades of night came on. 
"Whose dar?" she called out before venturing to let- 
any one in. "Friends," was the answer, "Fred Barks- 
dale and Clifton Allen." These were two familiar 
names to Aunt Chloe. Many a meal had she prepared 
for Fred and Clifton, and many a time had she stood 
and watched them as they drove off so gaily to church, 
or a drive through the country with Alice and myself. 
How quickly she unbarred the door, and bade them 
welcome. These were neighbor boys that had enlisted 
about the time our boys did, but in a different division. 
They were then encamped near our house, and had 
gotten the countersign and come to spend the evening 
with us, as they had on two or three other occasions. 
How pleasantly the hours were passing, when we 
heard the sound of horses' feet ; we rushed to the win- 
dow, and peering out into the darkness saw the glit- 
tering swords and the blue coats could readily be dis- 
cerned. They made a halt before our gate. Aunt 
Chloe, ever on the alert, was in the sitting-room as 
we discovered who they were. "Fly for your lives wid 
me," she said to Fred and Clifton. They lost no time in 
obeying. She showed them into the kitchen, and hid 
them in a large pantry connected thereto, behind two 
empty old flour barrels. The foragers, for such they 



Short Stories and Poems 53 

proved to be, rapped loudly at the door. Uncle Joel 
this time asked: "Whose dar?" "Soldiers! Let us in." 
The old man knew better than not to heed their cry, 
so he instantly opened the door. They immediately 
told him what their mission was, and that they were 
hungry, and had stopped at the first farm-house they'd 
come to for something to eat. Of course there was no 
repulsion in the case, so Uncle Joel said : "Yas sar, 
yas sar, des walk in, ise shore ole Massa won't 'fuse 
you a supper, tho' it is precious little we'se got to 
set 'fore you, gintlemin." "Well, bring out what you 
have, old man, is all we can ask," one of them replied. 
"Des walk into de settin' room dar, and wait till my ole 
'oman makes ready fur you, all we had cooked dun 
been eat up, sars," said Uncle Joel. Alice and myself 
were deeply agitated, but we nerved ourselves for the 
emergency, come what would. Aunt Chloe had in- 
tended they should only find their way into the dining- 
room, but they had been so long without food their 
impatience knew no bounds ; so, before she had time to 
prepare a hasty supper, they went in search of the kit- 
chen. Our hearts almost ceased to beat when we saw 
them start in that direction. We knew Aunt Chloe 
had deposited our visitors somewhere in that locality ; 
but the old soul had never been caught asleep in all 
her life, so she was ready for them. They were four 
in number. "You des set right down dar, gintlemin, 
Fse nearly ready," and throwing wide open the pantry 
door she said : "We'se not got anything but a piece 
of ham and a little meal, but you is welcum to dat, 
and wid some strong tater coffee I'se in hopes you kin 
make out." "You just give us what you have, Auntie, 
and we will go on our way rejoicing," said one. The 
old soul seemed to take renewed courage from that, 



54 Short Stories and Poems 

for never was a supper more quickly prepared, and I 
can truthfully say more hurriedly devoured. When 
they were thoroughly satisfied, they arose from the 
table and were lavish in their thanks to "Auntie," as 
they called Aunt Chloe. Then coming by the sitting- 
room, where Alice and myself still sat almost breath- 
less, they in a polite manner reiterated their thanks, 
and bowed themselves out. 

Was the departure of four guests ever hailed with 
more joy! The pressure under which my sister and 
myself had been subjected threw us into an extremely 
nervous state, and, falling into each others arms, we 
cried like children. "What is you cryin' 'bout I'd like 
to know, fur ain't Marse Fred and Marse Clifton safe 
as mice in traps, 'hind dem two ole barrels in de pantry, 
dat is if dey ain't skeered to death; lemme see," said 
Aunt Chloe. And with that she went and bade our 
soldier friends, "Git up from 'hind dem ole barrels, de 
Yankees dun gone, de horses have went up the road in 
a big trot." Our kitchen, as all old Virginia ones, 
was built separate from the dwelling. As soon as sup- 
per was prepared, Aunt Chloe was but too glad to 
hustle the foragers into the dining-room, as it was 
rather too close quarters in the kitchen. How thankful 
we were that father had retired quite early. He was 
always a sound sleeper, and being in a remote part of 
the house, was not awakened. "It was very risky in 
us coming to-night," Fred said to Clifton, after they 
had been rescued from behind the barrels. "Yes, 
replied Clifton, "but what is it a soldier won't risk 
when an opportunity presents itself to see old friends?" 
They had each been home a few evenings before, and 
had met with no adventure. Mrs. Barksdale and Mrs. 



Short Stories and Poems 55 

Allen lived about five miles from where they were 
encamped. 

It was with many misgivings that we bade them 
adieu, about an hour after we did the foragers, and saw 
them depart. We knew not what difficulty they might 
encounter before reaching camp ; but, on the morrow, 
an old colored man of their regiment came with the 
joyful tidings, all was well. 

A few weeks after this occurred, a letter came from 
Herbert. It was just after the battle at Meadow's 
Bridge. It told us Paul was wounded, Paul, the 
youngest and the pet. Oh, how we feared to tell father. 
"Will it be best?" I said to Alice; but we had each 
promised him the day the boys left home to withhold 
nothing from him, so we read the letter just as Herbert 
wrote it. "Paul has received a slight flesh wound ; give 
yourselves no alarm ; he has been sent to the soldier's 
hospital, Chimborazo, at Richmond, where all attention 
will be given him. His trouble is so slight, I scarcely 
need write, but feared you might have an exaggerated 
account of it from some other source." Poor father, 
always despondent, exclaimed, "Oh, what a fatality Is 
connected with those boyhood friends ! Charlie has 
passed over the river, and who knows how soon Paul 
may follow?" How depressed the dear old man was; 
how deeply the ravages of war were cutting into his 
aged fame. "I shall go immediately to Paul," said 
Alice. "Yes, my daughter," exclaimed father, "have 
everything in readiness by an early hour on the mor- 
row, and let Joel drive you into Richmond ; you can 
stop with your friends and go to see your brother every 
day." As the last words died on his lips, he gave vent 
to great, convulsive sobs. A powerful, strong man he 
had been in his time, but now a child. "Herbert writes 



56 Short Stories and Poems 

so encouragingly, father," I said, " and you know h^ 
was always the soul of truth, and with Alice's care, Paul 
will soon be himself, and ready to shoulder his musket 
again." "You don't know, my child," said my father, 
"you don't know." "Elmwood," the name of our country 
home, was the scene of great restlessness that night. 

Alice made all preparations for an early start to 
Richmond on the morrow, and as the gray dawn of 
morning stole o'er earth, she and Uncle Joel started 
to look after our boy. My sister was kindly re- 
ceived by her dear friends. One of the ladies accom- 
panied her to the hospital. How delighted Paul was 
to see Alice. "Oh, if I could but go back to "Elm- 
wood" and die," he said. The Surgeon told my sister, 
with good care, the wound would soon cure, and that 
her presence would be a healing balm. Paul sent many 
messages by Uncle Joel to father and me, never 
forgetting Aunt Chloe. He wasn't so sanguine in war 
as Herbert, but longed for home. How the hours 
dragged after Alice and Uncle Joel left, until we saw 
the faithful old negro nearing the house, as the shades 
of evening came on. I couldn't await his alighting from 
the carriage, but ran out to meet him, begging him 
to tell me how he found Paul. "Marse Paul is not 
gwine to die, I'se dun sot my eyes on him once agin 
in dis life ; yas, de dear boy has dun shook ole Uncle 
Joel's hand dis bery day." "Oh, Uncle Joel, I am so 
glad," and woman-like, commenced to cry. Father 
dwelt on every word that fell from the old man's lips. 
I could see the cords of suspense relaxing, and a feeling 
of relief pass over the dear face, as Uncle Joel told 
just what he thought of Paul, and how kindly he was 
being cared for. Many a prayer went heavenward 



Short Stories and Poems 57 

from me in humble thanks that affairs were no worse 
than they were. 

In a few days came a long letter from Alice. Paul 
was rapidly recovering, and would in a week or ten 
days set out to rejoin his regiment. "Would he was 
setting out for home," said father. "Let us rejoice,'' 
I replied, "that he is able to resume his march." The 
next we heard of Alice she wished us to send the family 
carriage to Richmond that she might return home. 
Notwithstanding her mission, she had spent a pleasant 
time with friends, and the monotony was broken a while. 
Paul had returned to his division, all the better for the 
rest he had obtained. 

Life at "Elmwood" contained no variety for some 
months, except an occasional letter from the boys, as 
well as from Fred and Clifton. There were no events 
worth relating. The two last mentioned soldier boys' 
letters were almost as eagerly perused by Alice and 
myself as were our brothers', for had they not been 
our dear, loving neighbor friends long before Aunt 
Chloe ever secreted them so unceremoniously behind 
the two old barrels in the pantry. They had been 
moving from point to point, and now found themselves 
many miles from home and loved ones, but they loved 
the cause and fought nobly. Each had been promoted 
from privates to commanding officers. 

We saw through the Richmond papers that 
Picket's division was engaged in the battle of Gettysburg. 
Father would have us read him every word, though we 
feign would have kept him in ignorance. Ah, the sus- 
pense into which we were thrown, only those can tell 
who have passed through similar trouble. 

Uncle IV el kept a close watch for the mail, and alas, 
reader, the fatal missive came. It seemed to weigh 



58 Short Stories and Poems 

like lead as I took it from the old man's hand, and trem- 
blingly broke the seal, and in a faltering voice read: 

"My dear Father and Sisters: — 

The battle of Gettysburg is over, and our dear Her- 
bert is numbered with the slain. How can I write these 
fatal words? My pen almost ceases to do its bidding. 
There is nothing more cruel than war, and have I not 
thoroughly tested it? Yes, I've stood on the battlefield 
and seen my boyhood's friend breathe his last, and now 
have I not seen my only brother slain before my eyes, 
with never a word or a good bye. But, oh, he was fore- 
most in the fight, which was glory enough for Herbert. He 
said to me the last night of his life : 'Paul, I had rather die 
in battle, than not to fight for my country and its 
cause.' Had he survived the battle of Gettysburg, he 
would have been made Colonel of his regiment. The 
Colonel was slain by his side, and he stood foremost 
in the estimation of Gen. Pickett, and was a universal 
favorite. Poor, dear father, would this blow could have 
been spared you in your old age; but remember your 
boy died like a hero. Our charge was a gallant one, 
but we met with defeat in the end. We are on the 
retreat, and I havn't time to write a long letter. Bear 
your trouble bravely; 'tis God that dealt the blow. 

Your loving Paul." 

Words, where were they to express our anguish? 
Herbert our oldest and our staff. We had expected so 
much from such a brother. Father's days, we knew, 
were few, so we naturally looked to Herbert. 

"Elmwood" was under a shadow; for days we ex- 



Short Stories and Poems 59 

pected the death messenger to bear away our father. 
Poor Aunt Chloe loved Herbert more than she did any 
of us; her cup of grief was bitter; she seemed to be 
dazed, so far was she from her natural self. After this 
letter, we heard nothing of Paul for months. We were 
in great suspense again, thinking he might also have 
been killed. Finally a letter came from Fort Harrison. 
After that was captured, we heard nothing more of him 
until the fall of Richmond, and the final surrender at 
Appomattox. 

One bright morning, the last of April, to our great 
joy, we looked out and saw our soldier boy approach- 
ing home, all foot-worn and weary. Our pleasure was 
marred by the contrasting picture we drew when he 
and Herbert started out side by side, nearly four years 
before, and our thoughts naturally reverted to father's 
prediction that he'd never see both, if either, again. 
Paul wept like a boy when he reached old "Elmwood." 
A few days after his arrival Fred and Clifton came 
home. After a few days rest with loved ones, they 
came to see Alice and myself, no more to be disturbed 
by foragers, or be compelled to retreat behind Aunt 
Chloe's old empty flour barrels. 

Had our loving Herbert and dear Charlie been with 
us, our joy would have contained no alloy, but the pres- 
ence of the others brought them vividly to memory. 

The war had greatly impaired the fortunes of every 
family in the neighborhood, but the soldier boys soon 
turned their swords into plowshares, and went to 
work with a vim. In a year after their return, Alice 
was wedded to Fred, and I to Clifton. We had 
watched so long over our father that he would not 
consent to have us leave, so we lived as one family at 
"Elmwood." Old Aunt Chloe and Uncle Joel still 



60 Short Stories and Poems 

occupied their quarters, unconscious, as it were, that 
their freedom had been given them. It would have 
broken their poor old hearts to have left "ole Massa 
and the chilluns." The roar of the cannon-ball was 
heard no more over the land, and "Elmwood" was again 
at peace. 



POEMS. 



MY OLD BATTERED CANTEEN. 

It has been in the war, comrades, 

It has passed through many a scene, 
But, oh ! how I treasure 

This old battered canteen. 
It is to me a lovely picture, 

As I sit and gaze on it here, 
Why I am growing weak, 

But I can't keep back the tear. 

Can it be Charlie's voice I hear, 

As he lay on the cold battle-plain, 
With naught but the sod for his pillow, 

Among the dying and the slain? 
"Just a little water, Harry, 

To cool my parched lips ; 
Bring the old canteen, my boy, 

That I may have a few sips." 

Many a fevered brow you've cooled, 

My old battered treasure, 
And to many a brave soldier boy, 

Have you given new life and pleasure. 
You were pierced by the enemies' bullet 

When the battle raged that day, 
And but for your protection, 

My life might have ebbed away. 



62 Short Stories and Poems 

You have moistened my parched lips, 

On a long and heated tramp ; 
You have kept sentinel with me 

When far away from camp. 
You have cooled my heated brain 

From the Summer's scorching sun ; 
Yes, I love you, old canteen, 

For the good that you have done. 

Say, what is it I hear? 

Can it be the bugle's loud call — 
On, on to the march, boys, 

To the right with Stonewall; 
What difference does it make 

To our tired, weary frames, 
No such word as defeat 

Shall darken our names. 

The cannon's loud roar, 

Is borne on my ear, 
As we charge up the hill, 

All heedless of fear. 
The bullets pass by, 

In their deadly flight; 
But, with Jackson in command, 

We will come out all right. 

All yesterday in battle, 

But we won, did we not? 
Yes, many an enemy 

Lies cold on the spot; 
Many a mother's boy 

Yielded his life to his God; 
Oh ! soften, I pray Thee, 

The hard-chastening rod. 



Short Stories and Poems 63 

Why, comrades, I've wandered, 

In war am I again, 
On the gory battle-field, 

With the dying and slain ; 
I hear the loud bugle, 

It is only a dream, 
And things are not real, 

Or just what they seem. 

My brain is growing clouded, 

Each give me a hand, 
And say you will meet me 

In that bright, better land ; 
We will there know no battle, 

No pain or distress, 
But in the arms of our Saviour 

We will all sweetly rest. 



HAIL, THIS EASTER DAY. 

Bring flowers on this Easter morn, 
And let us all the world adorn ; 
Let their fragrance fill the way 
On this blessed Easter Day; 
On the day our Lord did rise ; 
Then let praises rend the skies. 

We cannot imagine a cold, dark tomb, 
Our Saviour there in all its gloom; 
For He arose this Easter Day, 
Which to the world did plainly say, 
That the Father only lent the Son, 
And His mission here was done. 



64 Short Stories and Poems 

No rose-lined pathway did he tread, 
But thorns were around Him spread ; 
They even pressed His blessed brow — 
A thought bitter to us now. 
Then why not hail this glorious day, 
That took our Lord from grief away. 

No broken urn lies at our feet, 

But the vase is all complete ; 

No crushed flower that could not bloom, 

Since Jesus, our Saviour, arose from the tomb, 

Showing to the world below 

That He could to His father go. 



THE FIRST EASTER MORN. 

{To Richmond's Beloved Pastors I Dedicate This Poem.) 

Years have come and passed away 
Since the first Easter day, 

Since the first Easter morn, 

When Christ arose before the dawn ; 
. When the women came around, 
Standing on the hallowed ground, 

For, in the sepulchre near by, 

Did not their loved Saviour lie? 

But what must be their consternation ! 
When the Lord of all creation 

Slept no more in the tomb, 

But had risen from its gloom ; 



Short Stories and Poems 65 

Risen from the cold dark bed, 
Now no longer was He dead, 

But would pass into Galilee, 

His dear disciples there to see. 

Mary Magdalene to the sepulchre did go, 
For did not she truly know 

What the Lord for her had done, 

What a victory had been won? 
Had her robes not whitened been? 
Had she not been cleansed from sin? 

She could not too early be 

At the tomb her Lord to see. 

Quickly did she go and tell 
What at the Sepulchre she beheld. 

Then John and Peter went to see 

If anything so strange could be. 
Then, stooping down and looking in, 
They only saw where He had been; 

The linen raiment lying there, 

Their Saviour gone, they knew not where. 

Mary, returning to the tomb, 
Found angels only in its gloom. 
"They have taken my Lord away, 

On this sad and sorrowful day ; 
Laid Him, oh ! I know not where." 
How her cries did rend the air, 

Piercing cries from a heart of grief, 

That in some way must find relief. 

But what joy when He came, 
Gently calling her by name ; 



66 Short Stories and Poems 

Then He bade her go and tell 

His disciples, all was well. 
Yes, the tomb for Him was past, 
And death's pangs o'er at last; 

Thorns no more would pierce His brow, 

All to Him was peaceful now. 

One disciple, Thomas by name, 
Could not believe He was the same 

Lord and Saviour crucified, 

For had not His Master died? 
He could not believe from wounds he bore 
He would see his Saviour more, 

Until He spake, then Thomas knew 

All the disciples said was true. 

Then Jesus did a sermon give, 

To teach and show them how to live, 

How to tread the narrow way 

Leading to the perfect day. 
With what compassion and pity he gazed, 
As they stood by so amazed. 

Then His farewell words were given, 

And in the clouds He ascended Heaven. 



HE SIMPLY SLEEPS. 

(Written on the Death of Dr. Moses D. Hoge.) 

He simply sleeps, there is no death, 
It did not come with expiring breath, 
Only a life resplendent came, 



Short Stories and Poems 67 

And ease for a tired, worn frame, 
His earthly work so nobly done, 
And now he rests with Christ, the Son. 

Who for him ought shed a tear, 

For he had no thought of fear, 

Better by far, let tears be given 

For him who has no hope of heaven ; 

Not for a man all purified, 

Who before His Maker is justified. 

Not for a man whose robes are white, 
Whose soul will bask in eternal light ; 
Not for the one who is now at rest, 
Among the sainted and the blest; 
But for the one all tempest-tossed, 
And who may be forever lost. 

Is not the warriors' warfare o'er, 

And peace found on a fairer shore? 

And the truths he expounded so richly here, 

Are realized on another sphere. 

E)eem it not a chastening rod, 

The soldier has gone to meet his God. 

And now in beautiful Hollywood, 
Where sleep the just, the pure, and good, 
He has been gently laid to rest, 
With immortelles upon his breast ; 
And the river, flowing to the sea, 
Will sing forever his lullaby. 



68 Short Stories and Poems 

FROM PRISON WALLS. 

What is it I hear, Warden? 

Is this just what you say — 
That I'm to go from these prison walls 

Into the bright sunlight to-day? 
I came here in the year ninety, 

And now it is ninety-five ; 
Why, I never expected, Warden, 

To leave this place alive. 

Have you been and told my Mary? 

Tell me just what she said ; 
I never thought that this would be, 

The day that we were wed ; 
She was a blithesome, merry maid, 

A woman fair and proud, 
And rather than have had me here 

She'd have seen me in burial shroud. 

That fancy picture on the wall — 

It hangs without a frame ; 
But if you will turn it over 

You'll see written there a name ; 
It is that of my daughter Fannie ; 

"Tell father it's all I could send, 
But he will know by this token 

That he has yet a friend." 

It is only a common picture, 
A scene on some little river; 

But, oh ! I treasure it, warden, 
Just for the sake of the giver; 



Short Stories and Poems 69 

Yes, my own darling daughter, 
The message that came from you 

Was a balm to your poor father- 
He knew that your heart was true. 

I am growing giddy, Warden, 

My brain it does so burn ; 
These prison-walls seem rocking 

Each way that I may turn. 
You say that I'll go into the sunlight ; 

Well, it has no charms for me; 
I now prefer the darkness, 

It suits me better, you see. 

Ah! my heart kept time with Mary's, 

The day of our bridal vow; 
I can scarcely believe this is myself 

Standing before you now. 
Oh, Mary, my own loved Mary, 

False men did put me here. 
Why, Warden, can you believe it? 

I am brushing away a tear! 

Well, take me out in the sunlight, 

Let God's own genial rays 
Shine down upon me. Warden, 

As they did in happier days ; 
I will not think the contrast. 

Too great for my burdened soul, 
For God is mighty. Warden. 

And can make this crushed heart whole. 



?o Short Stories and Poems 

A POETIC TRIBUTE. 

(On the Fiftieth Anniversary of Rev. Dr. Moses D. 

Hoge's Ministry Before the Second Presbyterian 

Church at Richmond, Va.) 

For fifty years this man of God 

Has stood before his congregation, 
Teaching the simple Gospel truth 

From Genesis to Revelation. 
He came here in manhood's prime, 

And how faithful has he been, 
Showing his people paths of light 

From the dark depths of sin. 

Many hearts he has linked together, 

In all these fifty years ; 
Many prayers for such been given, 

His blessings and his tears. 
He has seen them from the altar go, 

Start on the highway of life, 
The man so full of promises 

With the loving and trusting wife. 

To this same church the mourner has come 

All bowed with bitter grief; 
The chastening-rod has been so great, 

Where could there be relief? 
A loved one has been called away, 

A father, mother, sister, son, 
Yet would this reverent man of God 

Point to the comforting One. 



Short Stories and Poems ?i 

He wears the impress on his face 

Of dignity and power, 
And whatever the occasion may be 

He always holds the hour; 
His fame ends not upon our soil, 

He is known in foreign lands, 
And loved and reverenced there 

As his worth and truth commands. 

His is a large, expansive heart, 

He stops not in his congregation ; 
But loves to take the masses in, 

Whatever their relation. 
He believes in unity of souls, 

Of breaking the barriers down, 
And seeing the people of every creed 

Stand on one common ground. 

And in his anniversary 

He shows the loving heart; 
"Let all the people come," he says, 

"And every one take part." 
He knows in the great beyond, 

If their robes are pure and white 
There will be no difference made 

By Him who metes out right. 

And methinks beyond the river, 

When he gathers with his fold, 
That his crown will be resplendent 

Of the purest, brightest gold. 
He has labored for the Master, 

His life has been so fervent, 
That the plaudit of Heaven will be : 

Well done, good and faithful servant. 



i 

J2 Short Stories and Poems 

HOLLYWOOD. 

(To All Who Have Loved Ones Sleeping Within Its 
Gates, Do I Dedicate These Lines.) 

Tread softly here where angels sleep, 
Let no harsh sound disturb their slumber deep; 
The river flowing onward to the sea, 
Murmurs its softest, sweetest lullaby. 
The birds caroling in the grand old trees, 
Mingling their music with the evening breeze, 
Seem to sing in a quiet, subdued tone, 
Their merry, glad notes are here unknown. 

The violets fanned by zephyrs soft and low, 
Are whispering as they gently come and go : 
"We must pass lightly here, for around your bed 
Are sleeping many that the world calls dead." 
The queen of every flower — the rose, 
Here in its beauty and fragrance grows ; 
The lily pure, white and divinely fair, 
Wafts here its perfume o'er the balmy air. 

We seat ourselves beneath this quiet shade, 
For why need mortals here be e'er afraid? 
We can hold communion with nature and her God, 
We that have passed 'neath the chastening rod. 
A mystery, it seems, why loved ones are taken, 
But the thought comes that they shall awaken. 
Did not our Master lie in the cold tomb? 
And why should not that dispel every gloom? 



Short Stories and Poems 73 

The very air seems freighted with angel voices, 

And every heart awakens and rejoices; 

Ah ! in fancy, we see them before the white throne, 

A glorified throng in a heavenly home ! 

No question arises, Shall we know them there? 

The father is too merciful that blessing to spare. 

They will stand at the gate and welcome us in, 

All we whose robes are white and spotless from sin. 



'NEATH THE PALM AND WILLOW. 

(Lines Suggested by a Sermon of Rev. Dr. J. B. 
Hawthorne's.) 

There are no willows for the man 
Who obeys the Lord's command ; 
He can but sit beneath the palm 
All peaceful and serenely calm. 

If adverse winds should blow his way, 
They do not his spirit sway ; 
He knows it is the Father's will, 
And at His word all will be still. 

The palm tree over him will be, 
Matters not how wild the sea ; 
He will not 'neath the willow sit, 
If the shadows do about him flit. 

Hope shows the little beacon star, 
And to this man it is not far ; 
He can but reach across the night, 
The star is gone, but there's the light. 



74 Short Stories and Poems 

Willows seemingly may weep, 
But o'er his soul they do not sweep; 
He sits beneath the wide spread palm, 
A stranger to the least alarm. 



TO THE REV. DR. J. B. HAWTHORNE. 

Oh, fearless man of God, 

Why wait until the sod 

Shall fall upon your quiet breast, 

And you forever be at rest, 

Why not bring immortelles now 

And place them on your living brow? 

You've seen the haunts of sin and vice, 
And know they do the world entice; 
Fearless of men you've laid them bare, 
Showing how they do ensnare. 
Then let us tell what you have done 
And what a victory you have won. 

You speak for Christ whene're you can, 

What He is to your fellow-man — 

In language beyond compare, 

You tell of angels and the home up there; 

You stand and point to the narrow way 

That leadeth to the perfect day. 

And as the evening shades are falling, 
Ere long you'll hear your Saviour calling; 
But fearless man your robes are white, 
You can but enter into light. 
And when you stand before His fold, 
The King in His glory you'll behold. 



Short Stories and Poems 75 

HOLLYWOOD MEMORIAL. 

They only sleep beneath this quiet shade, 
Then why should mortal halt or be afraid, 
For none will ever harm or molest — 
Many of these sleepers are God's chosen best. 
The warrior famed in song and story, 
Who died upon the battle-field all gory, 
The monument above his head here stands, 
To perpetuate the memory he commands. 

Great men, by noble deeds made renowned, 
Here sleep the deep sleep, so quiet and profound; 
We can only bring garlands bedewed with tears, 
Which we shall do through all the coming years. 
Sleep on in this beautiful, grand old spot, 
What you have done can never be forgot ; 
The flowers we bring will fade before the sun, 
But not the good you noble men have done. 

Hush ! this is holy ground, tread lightly here, 
For these sleepers are to many hearts so dear. 
The mother standing by her boy's grave, 
Would have freely died, his life to save. 
The wife beside the husband of her youth, 
Remember vows he gave in love and truth ; 
The brother by the sister he did revere, 
But angels bore her to another sphere. 

Bring flowers, to this city of the dead. 
And let them o'er the silent graves be spread ; 
Forget not the soldier boy though humble and poor, 
Remember he left some fond mother's door; 
Some mother may weep o'er her boy to-day, 
Though he sleeps in Hollywood, far, far away; 
His name may not be carved in marble and stone, 
But his daring and bravery have both brightly shown. 



j6 Short Stories and Poems 

TRIBUTE TO LITTLE AGNES CUNNINGHAM, 

Daughter of Capt. Frank Cunningham, Richmond's 

Sweet Singer. 

Little Agnes, up in heaven, 

Hears no longer papa's voice, 
But the angels' songs around her 

Make her little heart rejoice. 

After awhile, she will hear him 
When he joins the heavenly choir, 

When his work on earth is ended 
And he is called to come up higher. 

Then sleep, little one, sweetly sleep, 

Angels will sing your lullaby, 
Father and mother, why need weep, 

Why for Agnes will you sigh? 

Thorns would be around her pathway, 
But in heaven are flowers eternal, 

And her little feet will ever 
Wander over fields all vernal. 

In your home a chair is vacant; 

On your hearts is sorrow, deep ; 
But little Agnes, all unheeding, 

Lies so peacefully asleep. 



Short Stories and Poems yy 

i 

(Lines on the Death of Little Willie Cook, Who Died 
From a Fall in Madison School Yard, Nov. 19, 1894.) 

Monday came, the day for study, 

Mother watched him start to school; 
Mayhap whispering as he left her : 

"Willie, mind the teacher's rule." 
Little did she think her darling 

Walked within the jaws of death, 
That there lurked a stone so theach'rous 

As to rob her child of breath. 

You who watch your children coming 

From their studies day by day — 
Watch their bright and beaming faces, 

Hearing what they have to say; 
You can know this mother's anguish, 

When she saw her dying child. 
That they brought within her presence, 

Looking strange and wierd and wild. 

Had the blow been not so sudden; 

Had some warning word been giv'n ; 
Had she sat beside his pillow, 

Hearing angels call from Heav'n ! 
But alas ! so few the hours 

Since she watched him in his play — 
Since she saw him join his comrades, 

And in gladness haste away. 

Can she realize her darling 

Lies in death's cold, dark embrace ; 

That only God and the angels 
Look into his loving face? — 



78 Short Stories and Poems 

Ah, the rose-leaves all are scattered — 
Faded is her lovely flower ! 

Yes, but mother, you have a promise, 
It is blooming in Heav'ns bower. 



I BUILT A BRIDGE OF FANCIES. 

I built a bridge of fancies 

In my early girlhood days, 
The structure seemed so very strong, 

And perfect in its ways, 
I felt that all of winter's storms 

And all the summer's sun 
Might blow and shine against this bridge, 

But the work was firmly done. 

This bridge was strewn with rose-leaves, 

And with flowers rich and rare, 
Hope entwined its tendrils 'round 

And made it all so fair. 
I sat and gazed upon it, 

And felt I'd softly tread, 
Upon those rare exotics, 

That were o'er this structure spread. 

Hope bade me step upon it, 

Perseverance, too, said start. 
How bright and buoyant I felt, 

How glad my girlhood heart; 
Rosy morning dawned upon me, 

The sky was clear and blue, 
All nature seemed so smiling, 

So gentle, kind and true. 



Short Stories and Poems 79 

There were no barriers in my way, 

No stones to turn aside, 
My feet were all unfettered, 

How softly would I glide ; 
Who could not tread on rose leaves, 

On lilies pure and fair ; 
There were no thorns to prick me, 

On my bridge just over there. 

The flowers were all so fragrant 

They filled the air around, 
I fancied I would soon 

Tread upon fair Eden's ground ; 
The star of hope shone brightly — 

It illumined all my way; 
It made the darkest night 

One bright, bright summer's day. 

I wondered why all men 

Did not tread this path of flowers, 
Why they found so many obstacles 

In this beautiful world of ours; 
Why they stopped so oft by the wayside, 

All tired and weary-worn ; 
Why their brows were marked with sorrow, 

And their hearts had anxious grown. 

But, ah ! the problem is solved, 

As I stand and gaze from afar, 
I see the rose-leaves have vanished, 

And gone is my hope's bright star ; 
My flowers too are withered, 

For the sun of a summer's day 
Shone down all too warmly, 

And faded fancy's bridge away. 



80 Short Stories and Poems 

And now, since I have older grown, 

The dreams of my early youth 
I see are but illusions, 

That the world is a sad, sad truth. 
We need build no bridge of fancies 

Expecting it to last ; 
It is too frail for human tread, 

And will crumble sure and fast. 



THEY'VE SOLD THE FARM. 

Three times to-day I've started 

To leave this dear old home, 
But somehow or another 

This heart has tender grown ; 
I thought to live right here 

The remnant of my day, 
But the children have planned 

To have it another way. 

They say it is very useless 

That I should live out here, 
But that I must come to the city 

And it'll not cost them so dear, 
That why should they have 

The expense of an extra home, 
And that it doesn't look right 

For me to live here alone. 

I can divide my time between them, 
First with Mary then with Tim, 

And Jonathan, the eldest boy, 

Says he'll always want me with him ; 



Short Stories and Poems 8i 

But this poor heart is all sorrowful, 

For I've seen the old cast out, 
And in their gay and fashionable homes 

They'll not long want me about. 

I am now very old and fogy, 

And hard it will be for me 
To change my life into theirs, 

And see just as they see; 
How much better to leave me 

Alone on this dear old farm, 
I'm sure the few days I have to stay 

Would do none of them much harm. 

It was here I came with Mary, 

Just fifty years ago, 
But she long since has left me 

To sleep under the beautiful snow, 
And as I take my walks, 

All around this dear old place, 
There's not a spot upon it 

But reminds me of her face. 

Ah ! tender memories you have 

For this poor old feeble man, 
But I this day must leave you 

To do the best I can; 
My heart will always turn 

To this dear old familiar spot, 
For not a scene about you 

Will ever be forgot. 

But I must follow the children, 
They say they can't have me stay ; 



%2 Short Stories and Poems 

Oh ! God ! how I wish 

I could only have my way ; 
But my purse has grown quite empty 

By giving them a start, 
And with one thing and another, 

Until I and the old farm must part. 

I was once a powerful man, 

Can this really be me, 
With the tears coursing adown my cheeks, 

As weak as a child might be? 
Well I'm old now and can't help it, 

But I'll go as they have bidden, 
And when they wound this poor sad heart, 

May I keep the scars all hidden. 



MAUD'S PICTURE. 

I've been looking through an album, 

Of friends in Auld Lang Syne, 
And I've come across a picture 

Of Maud and mine. 
She the blue-eyed maiden, 

With the beautiful golden hair, 
There never lived another then 

Half to me so fair. 

We went to school together, 
Across the meadows green, 

We gathered daisies and violets, 
And made a wreath between ; 



Short Stories and Poems 83 

We said that this wreath should be 

An emblem of our vow, 
That is should be unbroken, 

But where are those promises now? 

For Maud you did prove treacherous, 

School days were scarcely o'er 
Before you were wed to Harry Gray, 

The beau of Ellen Moore ; 
Ellen, a gentle trusting- one, 

Did pine and sigh for Harry, 
And rumor has it she's ne'er been the 
same 

Since you two did marry. 

Well, Maud, I thought you very fair, 

And the dearest girl I knew, 
But let me tell you now 

I found another far more true; 
And I'll be candid about it, 

I am thankful the fates favored me, 
For I should hate to have wedded, 

A girl so fickle to see. 

Do you remember, at school, 

The little girl Annabel Lee, 
The one with long, flaxen curls? 

Well, she was the one for me ; 
Oh, what a dear little creature, 

The soul of honor and truth, 
Her pathway in life is heavenward, 

And has been since her vouth. 



84 Short Stories and Poems 

I hope that you and Harry 

Are as happy as Anna and I, 
For our life is all sunshine, 

With ne'er a cloud passing by ; 
And our children are as lovely 

As we need wish to see; 
How I thank the good Father above 

For sending me Annabel Lee. 



MY ANGEL GRACE. 



The house does seem so strange, 

Stillness has stolen into each room, 
Robbing them of sunshine and light, 

Shrouding them in darkness and gloom ; 
I find myself listening to hear 

The tread of busy little feet, 
And often do I turn to gaze 

Into a face so sweet. 

I find a dress now laid away, 

A little shoe she used to wear. 
And all to itself and tied with blue, 

Is a ringlet of her golden hair: 
Her little treasures, the source of such fond joy, 

The chair in which she sat beside my knee, 
Are put away and held as sacred 

As anything could ever be. 

How often do I go into the room 
And sit me down beside each little toy, 
And feel she would come soon, 



Short Stories and Poems 35 

In all her innocence and joy, 

Just as I've seen her before, 
With childish glee upon her face, 

Asking me in her winning way, 
"If I'd turn tu p'ay wid baby G'ace." 

My fancy leads me far astray — 

I turn to greet my lovely child, 
And when I see she is not there 

It almost makes me wild ; 
I fall, earnestly, upon my knee, 

And fervently pray that God 
Will bend my heart in submission 

To His own chastening rod. 

It seemed that while I knelt, 

An angel band did come, 
And, pointing upward, say: 

"There is your darling's home — 
Why mourn you here on earth? 

Why would you have her stay, 
When there, up there, is heaven, 

And she treads that golden way?" 

How bright the room became — 

The darkness fast did go ! 
It seemed a heavenly radiance, 

Did shine on all below; 
And that I did see my darling 

With a crown upon her brow, 
And did hear her whisper : 

"Mother, why mourneth thou?" 



86 Short Stories and Poems 

"My home is now in heaven, 

And why need you shed a tear? 
For only a few short days will pass, 

And you, too, will be here. 
Mother, I'll be watching 

As you leave that earthly shore ; 
Yes, I'll be waiting at heaven's gates, 

Where I have passed before." 

The river that flowed so darkly 

Between me and my child. 
Did cease its wild roar, 

And seemed now so calm and mild. 
I arose from my silent prayer 

Feeling that God had given 
Only to take away 

And bring my soul to heaven. 



THE CLARABEL LEE. 

Well, Margery, I've taken my last voyage, 

And now I've come home to you, 
For I love you dearly, Margery, 

And I love old ocean grand and blue 
I stood on the deck this morning, 

Of my beautiful Clarabel Lee, 
And, Margery, I cried like a child, 

That our parting so soon should be. 

A friend she has been to me, 

These twenty years or more, 
And how I loved that old ship, Margery, 

I never knew before. 



Short Stories and Poems 87 

Don't you know how hard it was 

To leave you and baby May, 
And how fast the tears did flow 

The day Clarabel sailed away? 

But we are creatures of habit, dear, 

And the ship soon seemed like home, 
But, of course, I missed you and our babe 

Wherever I did roam. 
Ah! those were grand old days, 

When you did sail with me, 
Were there ever two happier ones, 

Out on the deep blue sea. 

And then I looked for the time 

When our ship would homeward steer, 
I could see this flower-wreathed cot, 

And the little garden near, 
And you standing in the doorway, 

Waving and kissing your hand, 
To us weather beaten sailors, 

That were nearing so close to land. 

Ah ! what a beautiful picture 

How vivid to memory dear, 
I wish some grand painter had it 

As it did to me appear. 
You were a lovely woman 

And joy lit up your face, 
Margery, I can never 

That image from memory erase. 

And when the day did come around 
That Clarabel must sail, 



88 Short Stories and Poems 

Of course, Margery, you had a cry — 
When did woman ever fail — 

You imagined all kinds of things 
Would happen to you and May, 

That you would die and be buried 
And I be far away. 

But in the next seaport town 

There'd be a letter from you, 
Often the clouds had blown away 

And all seemed smiling and true. 
Our little May soon grew 

Into a charming girl, 
And here next the old sailor's heart 

Is a beautiful flaxen curl. 

It takes me back, Margery, 

To her own childhood days, 
She was a lovely little one, 

So cute in all her ways. 
Well, you say she is happy now, 

With the husband of her choice; 
Somehow it seems all about the house, 

I can hear her loving voice. 

Well, what a quiet time 

Margery, for you and me, 
Here in this flowery cot, 

Beside the rolling sea. 
I shall build a little ship 

And call it Clarabel Lee, 
Ah! Margery, I'm growing old 

And childish it is very plain to see. 



Short Stories and Poems 89 

But I must have something 

With which to employ my mind, 
And to make this little ship 

Is all that I can find. 
I know in my dreams I'll be 

Out on the briny deep, 
That I'll be at the larboard watch 

While all around are asleep. 

But, Margery, it won't be long 

That the old sailor'll have to stay, 
The golden cord will loosen soon 

And life fast ebb away; 
I shall go out on the ocean, 

This time the ocean-death, 
And Christ will be my pilot, 

At my last expiring breath. 



IN QUILTING DAYS. 

Yes, Lucy, things have grown quite 
strange 

Since you and I were girls; 
Then we wore our hair right straight, 

If not in natural curls ; 
There was no such thing, my dear, 

As rolling it up for days, 
To see if we could change it 

From its old accustomed ways. 

Our gowns were always made quite 
plain, 



90 Short Stories and Poems 

But neat, as neat could be ; 
I well remember the cambric one 

That mother bought for me ; 
She said that I, the eldest girl, 

Should have the finest dress, 
But father said there should'nt be 

A difference shown to Bess. 

And don't you know with how much 
pride, 

He came home from the town, 
And handed you so neatly tied, 

That pure white cambric gown? 
Ah ! we were two delighted girls, 

When the last stitch we took, 
And laughingly, you know, we said, 

The beaux would at us look. 

And on the next Sunday morn, 

We dressed ourselves with care, 
And started to the village church, 

Two maidens bright and fair; 
Our bonnets were of the rustic 
kind, 

And matched quite well our gowns, 
Aunt Ruth had sent them out to us 

From one of the nearby towns. 

Ah ! well the lads did stare, you know, 
But they could not be blamed, 

For we were known the country o'er, 
And for our beauty famed. 



Short Stories and Poems 91 

May God forgive us, sister Lou, 

For the vanity we felt, 
And if our hearts were far away, 

When we at His altar knelt. 



We felt a great deal finer then, 

In those plain simple things, 
Than our girls ever feel, 

In anything wealth brings. 
For what are silks and velvets now 

To girls that buy each day, 
Just something that fashion leaves 

But to be thrown away? 

And, Lucy, while talking here to-day, 

My fancy sits me down 
In mother's dear old garden, 

With flowers all around ; 
There were pinks, posies and daffodils, 

And hundreds of their kind, 
But, Lucy, they are not in vogue — 

Out of fashion and far behind. 

Our little parlor, all so neat, 

Kept by our own hand ; 
It seemed to us sweeter by far, 

Than any in all the land ; 
The flowers in mother's garden came 

To freshen and make it bright, 
The plain muslin curtains 

Were always tied with white. 



92 Short Stories and Poems 

Our doors were ever open 

To all who'd chance to come, 
And many hours did they spend 

In our old simple home ; 
And don't you know when mother's 
quilt 

Had been all quite complete, 
She did invite the country round, 

In quilting to compete. 

Ah ! what a grand old time we had, 
We worked till all was done, 

Then the fiddle started up, you know, 
Just at the set of sun. 

And, Lucy, can you ever forget 
How we danced with the laddies 

gay, 

And how the golden hours did fly, 
On wings so fast away? 

I tell you, Lucy, that old fashioned 
quilting 

Beats by far the afternoon teas, 
That are now-a-days given, 

To what we may call humming bees ; 
For thev are all fashion and follv, 

They come and go — nothing more, 
And if they were tested, Lucy, 

They'd not equal quilting friends of 
yore. 

We are growing old now, Lucy, 
Our summer is almost spent, 

Our May of life is past, Lucy, 
Which God has only lent ; 



Short Stories and Poems 93 

But, oh ! for the friends of quilting: 
days, 

So simple and so pure, 
'Tis only in the far beyond, 

That we will find them truer. 



A SABBATH DAY WITH MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

Gods' holy day, a day of rest, 
One that the Christian heart loves best; 
To-day communion shall be sweet, 
As when friends long parted meet. 

I'll bid earth's follies all begone, 
I'll gird the heavenly armor on, 
I'll take the Bible for my shield, 
And to the tempter never yield. 

I'll open that dear old book, 
And as I through its pages look, 
I'll feel that God is very nigh ; 
That heaven is not quite so high, 

But that I can reach its pearly gate, 
And that around it angels wait ; 
My wings now strong enough to bear, 
My patient, trusting spirit there. 

The old Bible o'er which I pore, 
Was mother's guide in days of yore ; 
And many a sabbath did she spend 
In learning truths this book doth lend. 



94 Short Stories and Poems 

That dear old saint has long since gone, 
But I must here worship on ; 
A few more days, a few more years, 
Then I shall have shed all my tears. 

A few more sabbaths here on earth, 
Then with mother, who gave me birth ; 
In that land beyond the sun, 
Then my work shall all be done. 

Holy day of heavenly rest, 
The one of all the seven loved best; 
My peace with thee has been so sweet, 
I feel I've been at the Saviour's feet. 



BEN AND NED. 



Well this is a pleasure, 

I never thought would be ; 
I little hoped, Ben, 

Your face again to see ; 
The letter stating you would come, 

Came by yesterday's mail, 
And try to tell the joy it brought, 

Why, words would only fail. 

It seems to me but yesterday, 

Since we went to the village school — 

When we played as boys will 
And defied the Master's rule. 

And can you ever forget 

The play-ground on the green? 

In my imagination, Ben, 
5 Tis yet plain to be seen. 



Short Stories and Poems 95 

What happy boys were we, 

At the close of the day, 
And what a precious hour we had, 

And how soon it passed away; 
Darkness oft stole upon us 

Before our games were through, 
And don't you know how loath we were, 

To bid each other adieu. 

It seems to me, the old school house 

Will always be the same, 
Should I go there years from now, 

I could trace each familiar name 
We carved upon those old time walls, 

Names, Ben, so dear to us, 
Of those long gone before, 

Now mouldering in the dust. 

There was a hero in our school, 

Brave, true-hearted Jimmie Gray, 
Don't you know when troubles came, 

He always cleared the way ; 
His name is first upon those walls, 

And, Ben, the first in heaven, 
For well I know when life did cease, 

Peace to his soul was given. 

There were others not so good and brave 

Who would come and go each day, 
And when the humble school-door closed, 

Each went a different way. 
I should like to have kept trace of all, 

And know what care and joy 
Did fall into the heart of each 

Rough, uncouth school-boy. 



g6 Short Stories and Poems 

You tell me you have been 

Away out in the West, 
With fame and honor you've been crowned, 

Of all our class done best ; 
I am glad you have won 

These laurels for your brow, 
But mark you well the furrows, 

I see upon it now. 

I know to excel has been your aim, 

'Twas so in school-boy days ; 
Let others strive hard as they might, 

You'd always win the praise; 
Our teacher'd smile whenever you came, 

Your lessons to recite, 
He knew there'd be no failure there, 

But each one would be right. 

Yes, Ned, to succeed has been my aim, 

I've toiled and striven each day, 
To crown my brow with immortelles, 

Something that would never fade away ; 
Wealth I have at my command, 

And, perhaps, a little fame. 
I have carved on honors roll, 

My own familiar name. 

But let me tell you, old friend, 

I've never known the joy 
I knew when I played day by day, 

A happy careless boy. 
My lessons then were an easy task, 

The world was far away; 
I little knew how false it was, 

And how men went astray. 



Short Stories and Poems 97 

But Ned I've found the world 

Is not a summer's sea, 
But that the waves lash very high, 

Yes high as high can be; 
And many of our dear old class 

Have sailed far out from shore, 
They've forgotten all their teachings, 

In the early days of yore. 

The Master's good old precepts 

Have faded from their minds, 
The school and all its influences 

Have been left far behind. 
The world was too alluring, 

Too glittering and bright, 
And the song of the siren, 

Led them to darkest night. 

Well, Ned, my stay is short, 

It can no longer be, 
I only stopped, old boy 

Your face again to see; 
It does my heart good 

To grasp you by the hand, 
And I trust, though we part here, 

We will meet in the better land. 



LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 

In lovely days of long ago, 
Mother's hands were white as snow, 
As she stood before the altar 



98 Short Stories and Poems 

Pledging vows without a falter, 
Trusting one who stood beside her, 
Thinking ill could ne'er betide her. 

Fancy's bridge was wreathed with flowers, 
Freshened by cool morning showers; 
Little hands so pure and white, 
Could but pluck the flowers bright; 
Not a sharp thorn would she see 
Could they grow for such as she? 

Ah ! fond mother, good and true, 
They did grow for such as you ; 
Little white hands turned to brown, 
Mocked the sheen of wedding gown ; 
Wild waves rolled and washed away 
A bridge of fancies in a day. 

Little brown hands turned to white 
Pillowed on your breast to-night, 
Rivaling the lily fair 
Nestling in your silvery hair ; 
Gathered safe within His fold, 
These white hands doth He behold. 



WE LITTLE KNOW, 

We little know the pain and anguish 
Buried in each heart we meet, 

As we take our daily walk 
Out upon the busy street. 



Short Stories and Poems 99 

There we see a sunny maiden, 

With her wealth of golden hair, 
We would think naught but sunshine 

Shone around her everywhere; 
Could we probe her heart's great centre 

We would find a sorrow there, 
For the man that would have wed her 

Sleeps beneath the roses fair. 

And here the millionaire doth come, 

A proud and stately man, 
WHo walks as though he owned 

Half of this great land. 
Now, could you know my brother — 

Peace is a stranger here, 
His days are passed in turmoil. 

His nights in dreamful fear. 

Here comes the noted physician, 

The healer of mankind; 
How many people laud him 

And bow before his shrine; 
But mark you there, my brother, 

The furrows on his brow, 
For the care of hundreds 

Is weighing on him now. 

Ah ! there goes a lone woman, 

Clad in widow's weed ; 
We well know what cares beset her. 

And for her our hearts doth bleed. 
She has been to strew fresh flowers 

On that new-made grave to-day, 
And we fancy as we meet her 

She has brushed a tear away. 



ioo Short Stories and Poems 

On the corner stands an honest man, 

In perplexity and thought, 
How can he pay to-morrow 

For what he this day has bought? 
He has begged and begged for labor, 

Through all the long, long day, 
But all to whom he pleaded 

Did coldly turn away. 

Do you see that woman there, 

Struggling on her weary way? 
She left her home at sunrise 

And has labored all the day; 
Ah how hard she has to toil 

For those little children four, 
Then goes back at nightfall 

With bread and scarcely more. 

And here comes the Judge's wife, 

With a sweet smile for all ; 
Surely here there is no sorrow, 

Surely here no care doth fall ; 
Little we 'reck the Judge's high living 

Has squandered all his land, 
And that he must walk before us 

As poor as any man. 

Well, we wandered this land over, 

In many scenes we've been, 
But we've never found one being 

That all was peace within. 
We believe the Father's wisdom 

Has willed it should be so, 
To keep our hearts less wedded 

To this vain world below. 



Short Stories and Poems ict. 

YOU ARE A SUBJECT OF HIS MERCY. 

This is a question I would ask 

You men of high position, 
Do you ever stop and ponder o'er 

Just what is your condition? 

You are a subject of His mercy ! 

Though you wear the crown of a king, 

And sit upon a throne, 
And men to you homage pay, 

And you have pompous grown; 
You are a subject of His mercy! 

You may be the President, 

With power near and far; 
But any day you may be called 

Before His judgment bar. 

You are a subject of His mercy! 

You may be the Judge — 

Granting justice to a few — 
But who can tell when you'll be called 

To have justice granted you. 

You are a subject of His mercy! 

You've robbed your bank and creditors 

An exile you must be ; 
But go where'er you will, 

His eye will always see. 

You are a subject of His mercy! 



102 Short Stories and Poems 

The belle of the ball, so beautiful, 
In satin and dainty lace; 

You flirt with the beaux so recklessly, 
And win them by your grace. 

You are a subject of His mercy! 

You monopolist, who oppress the poor, 
Take heed how frail you stand; 

You seem to hold them now 

With your mean and selfish hand. 
You are a subject of His mercy! 

The Lord has showered blessings down, 
Your purse is lined with gold; 

A few more years and you will be 
As rich as men of old. 

You are a subject of His mercy! 

Your calculations here run high ; 

You see the way to fame ; 
The path is clear before you, 

You will win an honored name. 
You are a subject of His mercy! 

The rich, the poor, the great, the small, 
Of every tribe and nation, 

This is just how you stand 
To God in this relation. 

You are a subject of His mercy! 



Short Stories and Poems 103 

TO MRS. C. H. WEST. 

(The Mother Who Lost Four Children in Five Days 
From Diptheria.) 

In five brief days, dear mother, 

Four darlings you have laid to rest, 

With the lilies and the roses 
Lying on each quiet breast. 

Ah ! cruel, cruel fate, 

Could you not one of them spare? 
Oh, who of you can picture 

This mother's deep despair? 

Four vacant seats around the hearthstone, 

And each little unused toy; 
There are all their little games 

Which gave them so much joy. 

The mother recalls each hour 

Something that tears her heart. 
Great God! Only give her grace 

From these loved ones all to part. 

Though the urn is shattered here 

And the flowers dead to sight, 
Yet, beyond this world, eternal 

They are blooming, fair and bright. 

He will keep them lovingly for you 

Until you, He, too, shall call, 
Then how sweet will be the meeting — 

Mother and children — all. 



104 Short Stories and Poems 

GRANDMOTHER. 

Grandmother sits in her easy chair, 

And rocks and rocks all day, 
But I know by a glance at her care-worn face 

That her thoughts are far away. 
Through many a scene has this dear one passed- 

Of bliss, of joy and of woe — 
And I know she is recalling them all 

As she sits and rocks to and fro. 

No doubt her thoughts are wandering back 

To the day she was a bride, 
And was taken to that grand old house 

Where she did for years abide. 
Grandfather was of "ye olden time," 

A proud and noble man, 
Whose door was ever open 

To the humble poor's command. 

A duel was fought for grandmother's hand, 

And a proud man gave his life — 
Though grandmother could never become 

The dead man's slayer's wife, 
Although he was a man of fortune and fame, 

And one of handsome mein, 
Yet grandmother said there ever seemed 

A grave did lie between. 

But to grandfather she gave her heart, 

And for fifty years, all told, 
They dwelt together a happy pair 

In a mansion grand and old. 



Short Stories and Poems 105 

Children did come to bless their lot, 

To brighten their earthly bower; 
But death, the great invader, came, 

And took their fairest flower. 



Their hearts had never then known, 

The love that God had given, 
But it seemed an angel stood by 

And linked this sorrow-chain to heaven, 
So beautiful their lives became, 

So full of Christ-like grace, 
So bountiful their charity, 

To earth's impovished race. 

But it seemed the messenger — Death — 

Did love this household band; 
Only a few short years did pass, 

And grandfather was called to the better land. 
Grandmother was never more 

The same bright happy one — 
To her dark, lowering clouds had come, 

And obscured her noon-day's sun. 

She has had her flowery May, 

And now the snow has come ; 
The roses all about her lay, 

Crushed, withered one by one. 
Her beautiful hair, now silvery white 

Her eyes no longer bright, 
The frost of winter has come on 

And robbed them of their light. 



106 Short Stories and Poems 

A few more wintry days will pass, 

And then the summer's sun 
Will break forth all resplendently 

Upon this aged one; 
Her bark will soon be launched 

Upon the silvery wave, 
A white-robed spirit soon will go 

Home to the God who gave. 



THE LORD MY SHEPHERD. 

In green pastures He leadeth me, 
And in that way, no sin I see ; 
I've left the base and the denied, 
And all in which their dwelleth guile. 

I'll sit me down by waters still, 
I'll muse upon His gracious will ; 
I know He'll never leave me there, 
In darkness or in deep despair. 

The flowery pasture through which I go 
Contains no thorns or bitter woe ; 
I'll only pluck the buds so sweet, 
To lay before my Saviour's feet. 

If I should take the other way, 
It would but lead me far astray ; 
Instead of flowers in pastures green, 
Thorns alone would there be seen. 



Short Stories and Poems 107 

I cannot want — a shepherd He 
Has promised ever more to be, 
Even through deep waters should I go, 
Yet He'll be with me in all my woe. 

"I'll to the Rock of Ages cling," 
And there my offering will I bring; 
Wealth and fame and all there be, 
My sinful self I'll give to Thee. 



SEPARATED. 



I'm a very old woman now, 

And my hair has turned to gray, 
I've seen the rough and ills of life 

In many a changing way, 
But I've never known a sorrow, 

That could be compared with this, 
I feel now all my other days, 

Have been only ones' of bliss. 

Husband and I have lived 

In this house so long together, 
We've lived here through sunshine, 

And through the stormiest weather. 
But now I find myself, 

Sitting by his lifeless form, 
A lone and aged woman, 

With the hopes of life all gone. 

All did seem so bright before us, 
There was nothing to annoy, 

Flowers did bloom along our way, 
Our gold had no alloy. 



108 Short Stories and Poems 

This little vine-clad cot, 

Did seem an Eden-bower, 
And all the troubles in our life, 

Were but as a summer's shower. 

How happy were we both 

When God sent our baby boy! 
Did ever parents look on one 

With such fond pride and joy? 
But as years rolled by others came 

Into our hearts and home, 
Then cares did fall upon us, 

Which were hard often to be borne. 

Oh well do I remember, 

The day our eldest born, 
Did go out from our threshold, 

To brave the cold world's storm; 
Our golden chain was broken, 

There was left a vacant chair, 
And when we met around our fireside, 

One loved form was missing there. 

W^ell one by one they left us, 

These children of our tenderest care, 
Oh God will you watch kindly o'er them, 

May the}^ never know sin and its snare. 
How oft have husband and I, 

Knelt by this fireside together, 
And prayed for our childrens return, 

That our band would nevermore sever. 



Short Stories and Poems 109 

But a far mightier has broken 

The strongest link of our chain, 
For death has called husband away, 

He can never return again. 
The children may come to the home, 

They left in their earlier days, 
But their father has gone to one, 

Where he will remain always. 

The sun of my life has gone down, 

Behind a dark wintry cloud, 
The star of hope has set, 

And I cry in my anguish aloud, 
I send a wild plea to heaven, 

And ask why I too should not come, 
That earth will be but a desert, 

And this cottage a miserable home. 

'Tis the golden bowl that's broken, 

Here it all shattered lies, 
I stand and gaze on the dead, 

But closed are those sightless eyes ; 
Closed to me and earth's frailties, 

But opened in a brighter sphere, 
Yet, husband, this grief knows no bounds, 

And fast falls my bitterest tear. 



MY TREASURE CHEST. 

Yes, the shadows have gather d 'round me 
And the room has darker grown, 

I have sat here for the hour 
Sadly dreaming all alone ; 



no Short Stories and Poems 

Time for me has brought its changes — ■ 

Once I was a merry girl, 
Now I find myself a woman 

Battling with a cold, stern world. 

I have been so sad to-dav — 

Sadder far than words can tell ; 
For I have unearthed old treasures, 

Which my heart doth love so well. 
'Tis not often that I dare 

Open this chest, kept hidden from view, 
Which contains the treasures rare — 

Of mother, sisters, and brothers too. 

I have just read mother's letter, 

Full of tenderness and truth, 
Which she wrote me long ago, 

In my bright and happy youth, 
When I first bade adieu 

To my home and those so dear, 
And came away to dwell 

With the man I did revere. 

Mother, dear, you stood and watched me 

As we were borne away; 
Then you turned aside in anguish 

With a burdened heart that day. 
They did say I was your darling, 

I, the first born and your pride, 
And that it did rend your heart-strings 

To see me become a bride. 

There's a curl of Jamie's hair — 
Jamie that would a wandering go; 



Short Stories and Poems hi 

Oh ! the cruel sea did rob us 

Of our boy long ago. 
Oh ! you maddening, maddening waters, 

How could you take such a lad, 
And make a home that was so lovely 

All so dark and drear and sad? 

There's a letter from Paul, our brother, 

Paul the mightiest of our race, 
Who bore the mark of honor 

In each feature of his face ; 
But to seek the golden treasure 

He did leave his native home, 
And from a foreign land he writes 

Where he still doth roam. 

Ah, me ! that tress of Jessie's, 

Brought tears into my eyes, 
As the thoughts of other days 

Did fast to memory rise. 
She was too pure for earth, 

So fond angels came and bore 
Her girlish form to heaven, 

But left our hearts so sore. 

And there's a picture of Anna ; 

Anna, so loving and gay, 
That was early wed to the banker, 

Who did take her far away. 
It seemed to me that she 

Did speak from that dumb frame. 
That I surely did hear her 

Calling me by my name. 



ii2 Short Stories and Poems 

This chest of treasures brings back 

So vividly to my mind 
All the scenes that once were 

In the days of "Auld Lang Syne:" 
But oh ! so many, many changes ! 

How severed is our band ! 
Some have gone to heaven, 

Some dwell in a foreign land. 

Well, I hear my husband's footsteps 

Coming towards the door, 
I must hasten to meet him 

As I have always done before. 
He has had his worries and cares 

Out in the world all day, 
So when he returns at eventide 

I should drive sadness away. 



OLD AND ALONE. 



Our home was once so joyous, 

So full of love and mirth, 
For five little bright ones 

Gathered around our hearth. 
Husband and I would watch them 

Through the hours of the day, 
As they played all about us, 

In their simple, childish way. 

I sit and recall them now, 
And in fancy see each face; 



Short Stories and Poems ii, 

There was loving blue-eyed Bessie, 
And darked-eyed \Vinsome Grace ; 

There was Frank, and Joe, and Jamie, 
Each a bright and handsome lad ; 

Their little hearts were always 
So merry, gay and glad. 

And when the wintry night grew dark, 

And lowering was the sky, 
How comforting to look about 

And know that they were nigh ; 
That nought could harm the children, 

They were safe within the fold; 
Yes, husband and I would watch them — 

They were more to us than gold. 

Can I ever forget their faces, 

As they knelt beside our chairs, 
And looking up to heaven, 

Would say their evening prayers? 
For they were so very radiant, 

As they arose from beside my knee, 
That they must have seen the angels 

That were all unseen by me. 

Oh ! who can tell how near 

These little ones had come 
Unto Him who loved them 

Before He called them home? 
For the fatal fever raging 

Did take them all away, 
And the grave holds all our jewels. 

Of our anguish who can say! 



H4 Short Stories and Poems 

I have sat all through the twilight, 

And now its growing late ; 
Why should I sit here 

And watch, and wonder, and wait? 
Husband has long since been 

Asleep in his easy chair ; 
He knows they will not come, 

For they are all up — there. 

But it seems that my darlings' spirits 

Have played all about the room, 
And that they have been here 

Around me in the gloom. 
I've put out my hand in the darkness, 

To see if they were nigh ; 
Oh ! no, its only a fancy — 

But I'll see them bye and bye — 

For the Father, in His mercy, 

Knows my aching heart, 
And He will not keep me long 

From my little ones apart : 
But the gates He will open wide, 

And bid me enter there; 
Then I shall see the faces 

Of our angels all so fair. 



WHEN JOHN AND I WERE YOUNG. 

Come here, John, and sit beside me, 
And we'll talk a little while, 

Of the changes which have come over us, 
Since we were each a child. 



Short Stories and Poems 115 

Father then was ever with us, 

Working by our side you see, 
Always glad to be a helper, 

That our tasks might lighter be. 



And, John, while musing here to-night, 

The summer comes to me 
That father had the debt to pay 

Before he could be free. 
And don't you know how hard we toiled 

Through all the long hot time? 
"Boys, if we pay the mortgage, off, 

The farm will yet be mine.'' 

And, laying each hand upon our heads, 

And looking in our eyes, 
He said, "I know you'll do your best 

To help us all to rise.'' 
How willingly we worked away, 

Until our tasks were done, 
Then we started home, you know, 

Just at the set of sun. 

And when coming in at eventide, 

Mother, fresh and young and gay, 
Always at the gate to meet us, 

Singing some old-time, sweet lay; 
For her heart was ever joyous, 

Ever full of love and mirth. 
And she sang those old-time ditties, 

John, the sweetest to us of earth. 



n6 Short Stories and Poems 

The tea things were always ready, 
Made so by her dear hand ; 

I wondered if there was such a board 
In all of this great land. 

Well, John, the debt, you know we paid, 
And can we ever forget ! 

Oh, no! that glad rejoicing- 
Is in our memory yet. 

And after all our summer's toil, 

We went to the village school ; 
The master was a dear, good man, 

And not severe his rule ; 
And don't you know how proudly 

Mother watched us o'er the hill, 
Telling us to bring fresh honors back, 

That she might be prouder still. 

Oh ! they were happy days, John, 

Unfettered by earth's cares, 
Before we had seen the world 

Or were entrammelled by its snares. 
We little reckoned then, John, 

Oceans would between us roll ; 
That we would be severed far 

Almost as from pole to pole. 

That father would be the first to go 
From out our happy home, 

The blow to us so crushing 
And so hard to be borne ; 



Short Stories and Poems 117 

But peacefully he closed his eyes, 

His work on earth was o'er, 
And I fancy now I see his form 

Upon yon radiant shore. 

We watched mother fade day by day, 

We knew it would not be long 
Before she'd sing in a fairer clime 

Her oft-repeated song. 
And the time did come, John, 

When we laid her away to rest, 
In the quiet church-yard yonder, 

Hands folded upon her breast. 

We two are left of that loved band 

And soon our time shall come, 
Then we shall all reunited be, 

In that eternal home. 
There'll be no partings over there, 

We shall all join hand in hand ; 
No ocean can between us roll, 

In that bright heavenly land. 

We'll have a home not made with hands, 

And, John, I long to go, 
For what are all life's pleasures here, 

Compared to all it's woe. 
And the meeting will be so sweet. 

In that mansion of the blest; 
Yes, father and mother we'll come soon, 

And with you sweetly rest. 



n8 Short Stories and Poems 

THE OLD WOOD FIRE. 

(Lines suggested by a sermon of Rev. Dr. Wm. H. Whitsett, 
in which he said that the old wood fire had been with him around 
the world.) 

Memory takes me back to-day. 
To the little brown cot so far away, 
To the little cot and trees all green, 
Where mother's face was always seen ; 
To the little garden filled with flowers, 
Where we boys whiled away the hours ; 
We oft did chase the butterfly 
And watched it as it passed us by. 

And tired of play, we'd seek the room 
That was always robbed of every gloom ; 
Yes, mother's room was a hallowed place, 
Though no adornments could you trace. 
No painting of old from the walls suspended 
To tell of lives long since ended ; 
Simply father and mother hung side by side — 
He a groom, and she a bride ! 

And as winter came over the little brown cot 
Mother always sat in the same dear spot ; 
In the corner near the old wood fire, 
And near her sat our aged sire. 
They talked of days when hearts were young, 
And of old songs they oft had sung. 
And of old friends, long laid to rest 
Among the sainted and the blest. 

Near the old wood fire, by mother's side. 
Stood the spinning-wheel, her joy and pride ; 
She always arose with the dawn 
And would often spin till the day was gone. 



Short Stories and Poems 119 

And when was o'er spinning time, 

She sat by the fire till the clock struck nine ; 

And often have I seen her asleep 

With her knitting lying at her feet. 

Ah ! is there an artist in all the land 

That can picture that beautiful work-worn hand. 

And the needles as they swiftly flew, 

Knitting the sock of the yarn, so blue. 

And the old wood fire, and little brown cot, 

And the dear old familiar spot 

Where bloomed the sweet pinks and the posies, 

And mother's old-fashioned cabbage roses? 

Through many lands I roam, 

Far from the little brown home ; 

I've been in palaces grand and old, 

Where dwell the mighty, brave and bold — 

But the old wood-fire and mothers face 

From memory can ne'er erase ; 

And how the embers died one winter's night 

When mother's soul took its upward flight. 



SHALL WE KNOW EACH OTHER THERE? 

What is it you say, pastor, 
We shall know each other there, 
In that grand and glorious country, 
Land so bright and pure and fair; 
When death's valley we have crossed, 
Crossed its dark and surging tide, 
And have entered into heaven 
Where the good and pure abide? 



120 Short Stories and Poems 

Rich and poor meet here, together, 
Pass within the same church door, 
Listening to God's Holy Word, 
As you read it o'er and o'er; 
Patrician and plebeian come, 
All together bend the knee, 
But a look of recognition 
Scarcely ever do you see. 

You speak of the Heavenly City, 
Of its street of pearl and gold ; 
But without love to our brother, 
We can never it behold ; 
Love as did our fore-fathers, 
In those grand and good old days, 
And when they met together, 
It was to give their Maker praise. 

It was only a little log meeting-house, 
But love was the foundation, 
And their song was Hallelujah 
To the God of all creation ! 
They took each other by the hand, 
In a kind and loving greeting, 
That went far to pave rough ways 
Till the next Lord's day meeting. 

Know each other, pastor, there, 

When our robes are spotless white ; 

Know each other over there, 

In that land of endless light? 

Then why not live here together, 

As one great united band, 

That we may have a glimpse of heaven 

Before we enter the goodly land? 



Short Stories and Poems 121 

IN MEMORIAM. 

(To Miss Worthy Scott Embrey.) 

I walked out in a garden, 
Where bloomed flowers rare ; 
Their beauty was all around me, 
Their fragrance filled the air. 

The dew of morn was on them, 
They were fresh and pure and bright, 
And who would stop to think 
They could fade and wilt by night. 

I walked down this garden, 
I found the rarest flower, 
I thought it was the lovliest 
In all of this fair bower. 

It was a rose unfolding, 

Just telling what it could be, 

I thought the garden would be complete 

If no other flower I'd see. 

I stood in adoration, 
Little dreaming the summer's sun 
Would so early wilt the rose leaves, 
They would scatter one by one. 

And the urn that might contain them 
For use would never be, 
That the rose I'd watched so tenderly 
Would never reach maturity. 



122 Short Stories and Poems 

Too frail and delicate for earth, 

But are not promises given? 

And though the flower has withered here 

May it not bloom in heaven? 



THE OLD-FASHIONED HOME. 

(Lines Suggested by a Sermon of Dr. J. Wilbur 
Chapman.) 

The old-fashioned home is a thing of the past. 
It was bright and beautiful — too lovely to last. 
Father and mother sat, side by side, 
Around the hearthstone, so cheery and wide. 

They talked of the days when they were young; 
They talked of the songs which they had sung; 
They told of the meetinghouse on the hill; 
Of the pastor, whose voice had long been still. 

Of the little school, so plain and old, 

But as dear as if the logs were gold; 

Of the scholars who came and went each day 

To hear what the m?ster had to say. 

They talked of the day when they were wed, 
And how to the altar she was led; 
Father the king, and she the queen, 
As happy a couple as e'er was seen. 



Short Stories and Poems 123 

And when they had tired grown, 

We all knelt down by the old hearthstone 

To offer praise to the One above, 

And give Him thanks for our home of love. 

We have wandered all around the earth, 

Far from the land that gave us birth ; 

But the old-fashioned home we can ne'er forget, 

In memories' halls it is cherished yet. 



THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW. 

What do you hold for me, New Year? 
My heart doth ask, trembling with fear. 
The old, just gone, its stories all have told, 
But you have come new tidings to unfold. 

A youth, you are ; yes, one of tender age ; 
But you knocked and came as boldly as a sage. 
You took your place behind the feeble one — 
The father stepped aside and gave way to the son. 

There were furrows on your brow, old man ; 
You could not tread so boldly o'er the land. 
The winter's snow was on your tottering feet, 
The New Year you were forced to greet. 

The reed is broken on which you had leaned, 
And things were not just what they had seemed. 
The bell has tolled your time gently away ; 
Then, farewell, old man, you could no longer stay. 



124 Short Stories and Poems 

Your son is ladened with promises so bright ; 
He tells the world of beauty, love and light. 
He holds the star of hope high in his hand, 
And with a smile he waves it o'er the land. 



TO A FRIEND OF FORMER DAYS ON THE 
DEATH OF HER CHILD. 

Tidings have come to my distant home, 
That an angel has been and borne 
A little babe so tenderly loved 
To heaven's shining courts above. 
Nothing that skill or care could do, 
Spared the baby girl to you. 

'Tis only a few short months, dear friend, 
Since Christ came for one He did but lend. 
The shattered urn lies at my feet, 
The withered roses that were so sweet, 
I often feel such sore despair, 
Turn where I may, no comfort there. 

And then I'll think of the mansions grand 
Prepared for those in the better land, 
The rose lined field and the golden street 
That are tread forever by angel feet, 
Of the harps played by the heavenly choir, 
'Tis then my heart is anchored higher. 



Short Stories and Poems 125 

These links are broken — for you, for me, 
But the hand of the Master do we not see 
And know He holds the severed chain, 
And will firmly link it back again. 
We can be still, knowing 'tis God 
Who calls us 'neath the chastening rod. 

And when the harbor bar we near, 
May we have no thought of fear, 
May Christ the pilot clasp our hand 
And lead us to the better land ; 
May loved ones who there await, 
Be first to meet us at the gate. 



TRIBUTE TO REV. N. G. TERRY, THE PASTOR 
AND TEACHER OF MY GIRLHOOD. 

I've been looking at your picture, 
Tracing features one by one, 
And it seems you are speaking to me 
As you so oft have done. 
The college comes to memory, 
And the girls you used to teach, 
I recall the old brick building — 
The church where you did preach. 

Its walls now have tumbled, 
Modern ones will meet my view, 
But I associate the old ones, 
Dear pastor, more with you : 



126 Short Stories and Poems 

'Twas there loved ones of other clays 
Have listened to your voice, 
'Twas there old-time religion 
Did make their hearts rejoice. 

I've been thinking of the brother, 
Whose work here was early done. 
You sat so oft beside him, 
Pointing to the comforting One. 
He is waiting over yonder, 
He will know you, pastor, there, 
When you too join the angels 
In that Golden City fair. 

I recall the old home, pastor, 
You've been there in scenes of mirth, 
Then you've come in hours of sorrow, 
WHien there seemed no joy on earth; 
You've spoken words of comfort 
When our hearts were sorely torn ; 
You have helped us bear the burden 
That was hard then to be borne. 

Bread cast upon the waters 
Will return, we are sure, some day, 
So may you find its sweetness 
As you pass earth's stormy way; 
And if you do find briars, 
May a kind and loving hand, 
Remove them from the wayside 
That you may see the smoothest land. 



Short Stories and Poems 127 

And now in the shades of evening, 
As you are nearing life's decline, 
May your brow be fanned by zephyrs, 
And you the flowers' perfume find. 
You have toiled long for the Master, 
Your work has been well done, 
Your crown will be resplendent 
As you stand beside the Son. 



ON MEMORY'S SHORE. 



(Lines in Which the Author Reverts to Her Girlhood 

Home. ) 

I stand on memory's shore to-night, 
Ah ! memory would you never come 
To haunt me by the dim fire-light, 
Bringing visions of a distant home. 

I see it as in days gone by, 
A home so happy, glad and bright, 
But where are those loved ones now? 
Memory you make me sad to-night. 

I see the orchard as it stood, 
The old well with nectar pure, 
And many charms about the place, 
That did the stranger oft allure. 

The rose-tree climbing on the wall, 
The garden with exotics rare, 
Though I may go from place to place, 
No flowers can with these compare. 



128 Short Stories and Poems 

There was father with his kindly face, 
And mother with her dexterous hand, 
And brothers and sisters as they came, 
Composed this loving household band. 

But Reaper you have busy been, 
Of that large fold you've left but two 
Memory, leave my sad fire-side, 
I can't commune longer with you. 

A balm in Gilead though I find, 
For there's a mansion bright and fair, 
The reaper death can ne'er invade, 
And, oh ! I trust, they are all up there ! 



LET THERE BE PEACE. 

{Written After the Assassination of Gov. Wm. Gocbel, 
at Frankfort, Ky., in January, 1900.) 

In Kentucky's fair State, 

Where should ever dwell peace, 
There reigns bitter strife, 

That is so hard to cease : 
The grand old Capitol 

Has seen the death blow 
Of a man all unwarned 

Shot down by a foe. 

The snow in its purity, 

As a mockery did lie, 
Pointing scorn to the man 

That the law did defy. 



Short Stories and Poems 129 

How can such a coward 

Breathe the air God has given? 
Can he hope to escape 

The vengeance of heaven? 

He took a man's life, 

That was not his to take, 
He did trample Christ's laws 

And His teachings forsake. 
Had he stood face to face, 

As a man bold and brave, 
There'd have been some excuse 

For this treacherous knave. 

But to shoot a man down, 

When no warning is given, 
Even the demons below 

Would shout "unforgiven !" 
No place can he have 

In the fair realms above, 
He would be a broken link 

In God's chain of love. 

And the dear old State — 

The home of my birth- 
May you soon be restored 

To your glory and worth : 
May there be nothing to darken 

Your fair fertile soil, 
And peace reign supreme, 

Where now is turmoil. 




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